


Lady of Light

by LauraEMoriarty



Series: Tales from the Dragon Age [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Feels, Eventual Smut, F/F, F/M, Feminist Themes, M/M, Mage-Templar War, Mages (Dragon Age), Mages and Templars, Multi, POV Multiple, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Rite of Tranquility, Romance, Slow Burn, Strong Female Characters, The Tranquil
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2019-06-23
Packaged: 2019-07-27 19:58:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 53,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16226267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LauraEMoriarty/pseuds/LauraEMoriarty
Summary: A sheltered mage from the powerful Trevelyan family finds herself thrust into the unknown waters of intrigue and warfare with Andraste's mark on her hand. As she tries to adapt, she has to somehow undo the damage of hundreds of years of Chantry teachings to unite mages and templars in a fight to save Thedas. It doesn't help that she falls in love with a templar along the way.It’s canon-divergent, feminist, and there’s some dark stuff. (Let's face it, it wouldn't be Dragon Age without dark stuff). Multiple protagonists, and it’s more than just a story of how an Inquisitor falls in love with Cullen (even though that absolutely does happen), but of mages and templars, the Chantry and organised religion, and it’s also a fix-it fic of sorts, shoring up the plot holes and the like. Four POVs that rotate: the Mage, the Ordinary Person, the Templar, and the Nobility.





	1. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter One - Niamh

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to McLavellan, who insisted I write this, and to Barbex, my patient and fantastic beta. Some of the characters in this story belong to McLavellan, but we borrow each other's characters all the time.
> 
> Niamh is pronounced "Neve"
> 
> This fic's original title was Weaving the Tapestry.

 

 

 

Before the flood there was fire  
The fire burned bright and searing red  
Things that should have been forgotten  
Lost to the ages, and found not  
In the stillness of forest green  
Move the Templars, unseen  
Blood will spill, and rivers clear  
Will run red when blades are bared

\- Fragment of an unsigned poem found in the rubble at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, date unknown.

“Look at her—isn’t she _majestic?_ ” An excitable voice and an arm pointing upwards drew her attention to the dragon as it soared high above the Frostback Mountains. The foot in her lap bounced, and she leaned back, narrowly avoiding being kicked in the face.

Niamh Trevelyan looked up at the majestic beast, and shivered in her heavy fur lined cloak. Above them, a hawk cried out a warning. The chill wind blew tendrils of her hair around her face, and she pushed the hair out of her eyes. The snow underfoot had turned to sludge, slippery and dangerous. There had been people trekking in and out of the healer’s tent all day—some with cuts and scrapes, others with lingering coughs and sniffles, some with boils needing lancing, some with minor burns.

“There,” she said, tying a knot in a bandage as the young apprentice took his foot out of her lap. “Now, rest a bit if you can—and you can tell your possessive demon of a former first enchanter that she can bring it up with me if she thinks you are getting off lightly.”

“Thank you,” the apprentice said, teetering slightly on his good ankle. He pointed, and his face lit up. “Wow! Look at the Qunari!”

“Wonder what they’re doing here?” Niamh wondered aloud, curious more than anything else. She itched to get a better look at the tall, broad-shouldered qunari, to see if they wore their poison paint on their faces. “Most of the qunari I’ve seen since the fall of the Circles have worn vitaar on their faces.”

“You’ve seen them before?” the boy asked, and Niamh heard the awe in his voice.

“They occupied half the Free Marches for a few years,” Niamh said, smothering her smile. The boy reminded her of her cousin Harry at the same age.

“Wow! How scary,” the boy said, awed. “Were they scary?”

Niamh nodded indulgently, chuckling softly. “Yes.”

“How much longer are they going to make us wait?”

Niamh turned to see a girl, no more than sixteen pacing up and down the path. She wore the livery associated with the Threnholds of Kirkwall, the sigil emblazoned on her pauldrons. The girl shook visibly from the cold wind blowing through the valley. She looked far colder than Niamh felt. The brazier they stood next to provided very little heat, and so she took the cloak from her back, and handed it to the girl.

“I’m not sure,” Niamh answered, as the girl wrapped the cloak around her thin shoulders.

The icy wind picked up its pace as Niamh now shivered from the cold. Her generosity had always been her downfall—her weak spot. In the Circle, she had always told her students they could come to her at night, and she would let them sleep in her quarters if they had bad dreams, much to the detriment of her own sleeping. This was the same—she gave her cloak freely, and would now suffer the chill wind. But she knew too, that the girl who she had given it to probably couldn’t afford the cost of a new cloak, or even any cloak at all. She had her magic to keep her warm; this girl didn’t have magic flowing through her veins the way Niamh did.

“Th-thank you, milady,” the girl said through chattering teeth, shivering visibly as Niamh tugged the hood up over her head, fastening the cloak for her.

The heavy door to the Temple opened, and people poured out in droves. She watched the delegation from Tantervale come out, and soon she would be called in to give her opinions on how to end this horrid war. She wished she could go back to her academic studies, back to the safety and surety of the humdrum routine of the Circle. Yet, she knew that those days were gone—and all because a rogue apostate blew up the Kirkwall Chantry, sparking off the events that led to this day. She wondered whether the anger the apostate harboured had simply been nursed by the injustices faced by mages on a daily basis, until it needed an outlet. But, it didn’t matter now—now would be the chance to end this Maker-cursed war, and bring peace once again.

As more people exited the Temple of Sacred Ashes, Niamh weaved between the passing delegates, heading directly for the warmth of the transept. She slipped easily between them, glad to finally be inside, out of the cold. The dark passageway lit only by a lone brazier felt old, cold, and ethereal. Magic stirred in this hallowed, ancient place—old, forgotten magic that would be far better left undisturbed. The magic that slithered through this place felt serpentine, as though the remnants of the dragon-worshipping cult were still tangible, a living, breathing thing that still haunted these hallowed halls. The stone walls were steeped in magic and blood, a powerful combination that caused the magic in her veins to waken. Beneath the scent of incense in censers, the odour of wet dog and drake dung could still be smelt—a wholly unique stench that typified the Fereldan people. Niamh rubbed her hands together, before bringing them to her face to blow on them.

She bit her lip as she took in the ancient stained-glass windows that cast long shadows in the early afternoon sun. The stories depicted in the friezes on the walls were stories she had grown up with—the stories told by nannies trying to scare her into being a docile child. Those stories had been better suited to her sister, Aislinn, or her brother, Cathal. Especially Cathal. Her older brother had always been a cheeky blighter, her younger sister a spitfire. She had left them all behind when she went to the Circle, but she had returned home on the odd occasion—especially when their formidable Granny called them home for the annual Trevelyan clan gathering. But she couldn’t think of those things now.

She heard whispering, drawing her towards an antechamber. The ancient place whispered to her that this was a place of deep magic, old magic best forgotten to time. The Temple of Sacred Ashes cast shadows on this smaller chantry, but it remained steeped in magic. Perhaps a relic from the Ancient Tevinter Imperium, an old and untapped source of lyrium, or something deeper. In this hallowed, ancient space, the stillness of the magic ran deep. Her magic stirred in her veins, surging into her fingertips, if she chose to use it. She ran her gloved hand over the wall, and felt something within them stirring, as if to say “I know you.” Drawing her hand back, she moved towards the heavy ironbark door, the whispering drawing her closer and closer with each hush and sigh. The entire chantry was still in the cold winter, the bare slivers of light from the stained glass windows high above her head, and the whispering continued. The dust motes that swirled and streamed in the flickering torchlight, never settled on the simple pews, but seemed suspended in the air. The whispering continued to draw her closer and closer to the door, as though compelled by some unearthly power. Her hand rested on the smooth timber, and magic vibrated through her as she opened it, and fell forwards.

  
-•-•-

 

Panting from exertion, Niamh ran, spiders chittering after her as she darted through the Fade. She took the steps, three at a time, leaping over rocks and stones in her way. The figure before her flickered in and out of corporealness, leading her through the many dangers that lurked. Niamh had been in the Fade only once before, in her Harrowing. It hadn’t been as shadowy, or as dangerous then as it was now. The wind picked up, a howling gale as she ran, the sweat dripping down her back, and across her forehead, instantly chilling her. Her teeth chattered, her chest heaved with exertion, and she lifted her hand to push tendrils of hair from her brow. The eerie green light from the Fade made her uneasy, knotting her stomach as she ran onward towards the figure she’d chased halfway across this horrendous nightmare landscape. A few more feet, and she’d be there.

_Just a few more feet._

She stumbled, reaching out for the glowing figure as she fell forwards, and all went dark.

  
  
-•-•-

 

“Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now…”

The heavy Nevarran accent registered with Niamh as the mark on her hand burned. She cried out as the searing pain shot up her arm, setting her teeth on edge.

“The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead… except for you.”

I don’t remember anything past being chased out of the Fade by spiders, so this is news, Niamh thought, and schooled her features to neutrality. The Fade had been frightening, foreign, alien, even as a fully-harrowed, experienced enchanter. She had been too caught up in the moment to take in what had happened after she emerged into the light, and she remembered little between the pain in her hand and the events in the Fade.

The heavily armed guards still held their swords pointed directly at her. She flinched inwardly, not betraying anything. There would be time enough later—should they condemn her—to think about what had happened.

“I….” her words caught in her throat, as she struggled to sift through her emotions.

The Divine is dead?

“All those people…. Dead,” Niamh continued in a small, hoarse voice.

The Seeker grabbed her arm, and held it up. Niamh bit back a sharp cry of pain.

“Explain this,” she said, her voice breaking on the words. Niamh heard the mixture of grief and rage that simmered in the Seeker’s tone.

“I… can’t,” Niamh replied, glancing between the two women.

“What do you mean, you can’t?” the woman asked, incredulous.

"I don’t know what that is or how it got there,” Niamh replied through gritted teeth as the glowing thing on her hand throbbed, the pain getting worse with each passing second. If only the manacles weren’t so tight—she tried to rotate her wrists, and couldn’t. She knew there would be bruising later.

“You’re lying!” The first woman moved to strike Niamh, as Niamh shrank backwards.

Not this again.

The other woman grasped the other’s wrist, and pulled her away.

“We need her, Cassandra,” the other woman said.

Cassandra Penteghast, then? Niamh thought, as the other woman continued to stare Cassandra down. If she’s the right hand of the Divine, then this other woman must be the left hand—Sister Nightingale.

“I can’t believe it, all those people—dead,” Niamh said, her eyes downcast. The explosion had clearly been a massive one—the way Cassandra spoke of it.

“Do you remember what happened? How this began?” the faint Orlesian inflection in Sister Nightingale’s voice made Niamh glance back up at the two women, reading confusion and sorrow in the way they held themselves, the way they continued to pace.

“I remember running… Things were chasing me—they looked like spiders. And then…. a woman?” Niamh said, her voice faraway as she struggled to recall what had happened after this.

“A woman?” the Nightingale repeated, and Niamh heard the shock and incredulity in her voice.

“She… reached out to me, and then…” Niamh trailed off as she shook her head. Everything felt so muddled, like she’d had one too many of the Second Enchanter’s latest experimental drinks. She sifted through her thoughts, trying desperately to recall what had happened—she remembered a whispering that had drawn her towards the ironbark door, but little after that. Pain—everything hurt; her head, her hand, her entire body in agony.

“Go to the forward camp, Leliana. I will take her to the rift,” Cassandra said, as she helped Niamh to stand. Over Cassandra’s shoulder, Niamh caught Leliana’s nod.

“So, what did happen?” Niamh ventured, hoping to understand the horrendous mess she seemed to have landed herself in.

“It will be easier to show you,” Cassandra replied, the corners of her mouth twitching in what Niamh assumed was a smile.

When the manacles were removed, Niamh rubbed her wrists, glancing down to see that the bruising had already begun. As the manacles were replaced by a rope, chafing and rubbing her already tender flesh, she hissed slightly in pain. She chanced a backwards glance as Cassandra led her out of the dungeons and into the main part of the chantry. It had been just hours since she’d marvelled at the friezes on the walls, the stained glass windows with their depictions of Maferath and Andraste, and then the statue of the pyre Andraste had been condemned to die on. It felt like a lifetime ago since she had ventured into the chantry here at Haven.

Niamh glanced at the eerie green glow in the sky—fascinated and awed by the way it loomed over everything, the snow a dull green-grey. The hole through the clouds reminded her of ancient paintings she’d once seen in her grandmother’s library—the depiction of the First Blight, and the ancient Tevinter magisters who’d caused it. A lifetime ago, it felt like. Now she had a glowing hand, and the world had gone tits-up while she slept. It didn’t reassure her—none of this reassured her. A gaping hole in the sky—the death of Divine Justinia V, all the world had gone to hell while she’d been oblivious to it all.

“What is that?” Niamh asked, awed by the green spiralling clouds.

“We call it The Breach,” Cassandra answered, following Niamh’s gaze towards the sky. “It’s a massive rift into the Fade—it grows with each passing hour. It’s not the only such rift, just the largest. All were caused by the explosion at the Conclave.”

Niamh shivered. Walking through the Fade during her Harrowing had been bad enough—but this? In all her studies, she’d never heard of something like this. She frowned. In theory, a direct hole to the Fade could be opened, but in practice, it terrified her.

“An explosion can do that?” she asked.

“This one did,” Cassandra said dourly. “And unless we act swiftly, this will devour the world.”

 _Serious. Very, very serious_ , Niamh thought, awestruck by the thought of the ending of the world. The Breach grew, as the pain in her hand suddenly burned brightly again, and she collapsed, crying out in pain. Her palm burned like nothing she’d ever experienced before; not even exposure to dragon flame experiments had hurt like this. Though she had been sure that those experiments would kill her. She grasped her painful arm with her other hand, the pain searing through her.

“Each time the Breach expands, your mark spreads, and it is killing you,” Cassandra’s tone changed, and Niamh heard fear beneath the words. “It may be the key to stopping this, but there isn’t much time.”

Niamh breathed deeply, trying to control the pain as it spread up her arm, across her shoulder, and down her neck. As Cassandra helped her to stand, Niamh bit her lip to stop the cry of pain that threatened to undo her composure.

“If I can help, in however small a way, I will,” Niamh bit out, teeth clenched as she tried to control the spasms in her hand as Cassandra righted her. The pain continued on, a bright searing fire that threatened to undo her resolve. But she would not cry. That would be entirely undignified, and if anything, it would give her grandmother something to pull her up on the next time she saw her. Or, and she shuddered inwardly, Great Aunt Florenzia would scold her and scowl at her to behave with the dignity befitting the Trevelyan surname.

The villagers stopped as Niamh and Cassandra passed through the growing throng. Some of them lifted rocks, and hurled them towards Niamh.

 _So…. A public stoning, then? Granny and Great Aunt Florenzia would have a fit if they knew…_ Niamh thought, as she dodged the poorly-aimed stones.

“I think they’ve decided I did kill the Divine,” Niamh said, trying to inject humour into her words. She wasn’t entirely sure if she’d succeeded.

“They have already decided your guilt. They need it. The people of Haven mourn Divine Justinia. You know the Conclave was her idea, a chance for peace between mages and templars. She brought their leaders together, and now they are dead,” Cassandra said. “You were the First Enchanter who spoke for Ostwick Circle, were you not?”

“I wouldn’t say I was First Enchanter—I only got promoted three days before the vote to dissolve the Circle,” Niamh said. “But as the speaker for Ostwick, I definitely intended to be that.”

“Then you know there will be a trial. I can promise you no more than that,” Cassandra said. “I have heard of you—the one who voted against Grand Enchanter Fiona’s drastic measures. You made a difference—a moderate voice in the midst of angry ones. Come, it is not far.” She gestured to the gates as they opened.

“Where are you taking me?” Niamh asked as they walked towards the bridge between Haven and the ruins of the Temple. She shivered in the wind as it picked up, an icy gale that blew strands of loose hair into her eyes and mouth. Maker, she wished she’d not given her cloak away to a girl—that girl was probably dead now, caught in the explosion. She could only hope the girl had found peace at the Maker’s side.

“It will be easier to show you,” Cassandra replied, pulling a knife from her belt. “But, let me untie you first. Your mark must be tested on something smaller than the Breach.”

Niamh waited as Cassandra slipped the knife through the bindings on her wrists. She rubbed her wrists, as the mark on her hand flared once again. Falling once more to her knees, the intensity of the pain like flames licking up her arm, she uttered a wordless cry. Cassandra helped her up, a frown on her stern Nevarran face.

“I am sorry—but unless we act soon, your mark may kill you,” Cassandra said.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to help stop the Breach,” Niamh bit out, the pain unlike anything she’d experienced. Once, long ago, she had burned her hand on a cast-iron cauldron, and that had been painful enough—the pain in her hand now eclipsed it. But she wouldn’t dwell on it—there was nothing that could be done.

“Whatever it takes,” Cassandra agreed dubiously.

  
-•-•-

 

Niamh climbed the ladder, Solas, Varric, and Cassandra behind her. Careful on the icy rungs, her fingers sticking to the metal, she made her way up. Her decision—the one to rescue the marooned soldiers stuck in the treacherous mountain pass—would hopefully end up being the right one. And if it wasn’t, at least they’d worked out that her green glowing hand was useful in closing the rifts. She only hoped it wouldn’t kill her.

Through the ruins of an old mining tunnel, they fought. Great flashes of magic from her and Solas, Cassandra a blur of sword and shield, and Varric with his crossbow. The twin destructive powers of fire and ice, and the purple flashes of thunder reverberated in the tiny space. She reached down into the well of her power, calling forth the primal energies that flowed through her veins, and released a massive fireball explosion that wiped out the shrieks. She controlled her magic, reining it in tightly, and releasing it once more. Still shuddering from the power, she looked around at the others, and saw they too, were still fighting.

The green light at the end of the tunnel, and the sounds of battle grew louder with each passing footfall.

  
-•-•-

 

The demons fell from the rift in droves. Some were darkspawn, she realised, as the Shrieks threatened to consume the soldiers. Niamh felt the power of her magic coursing through her veins as she summoned storm after storm. The lightning gathered in her hand, her staff a conduit to the raw power that threatened, as it always did, to consume her. Around her, the sounds of battle were faint, the thundering of her blood in her ears and the magic that crackled in the air were all encompassing. Her staff flew around in her hands as she wielded it, whacking a giant rage demon. The green glowing hole in the sky pulsed and released more demons, the largest one being the horned nightmare that the majority of the forces were concentrating on.

A Pride Demon.

Horned, barbed, and gnarly. It roared its fury into the world, shaking the foundations beneath its feet with its stomping. The ground vibrated beneath Niamh’s feet, like a quake waiting to happen. She reached for her magic, and found the strength to fire a spell with her staff as the conduit. She felt the blood dripping from her nose as she concentrated hard on the Breach, and on the Pride Demon that seemed impossible to defeat.

Around her, the soldiers of the Inquisition concentrated on the lesser demons, as she continued to push herself beyond what she normally did, what she had done since the Circles dissolved. They had all been made into soldiers when the Circles fell—women, men, boys, girls—children utterly unprepared for the horror of war and reality. The flames licking up her arms and through her veins once more, Niamh brought her staff down hard as the golden fireballs exploded from her left hand.

The old magic that lingered in the temple awoke, disturbed by the vortex of power swirling around them. Steeped in pain and blood, the magic sang its terrible song, irresistible to some mages, but not to her. She wouldn’t give in to what the old magic wanted of her—her soul, and possibly her power. It begged to be released—it clamoured and clawed at her like a mabari hound on the scent of a rabbit—but she would not relinquish her control over her power, she would not give over herself to that great unknown. Instead, Niamh found the strength to resist, to push against that ancient, irresistible song as she brought her staff crashing to the ground, shattering so many shields and defences with her spells. The glowing mark on her hand pulsed with each shattered shield, and she brought it up again, flailing it at the Breach. The world shook beneath her feet, the roaring of the demon a deafening cacophony against the sound of swords on steel, and the twang and thwack of arrows hitting home. She vaguely heard the shouting of commands, the swiftness of which they were obeyed, as she plunged herself further into her magic, tapping deeper and deeper into her soul.

Her left hand burned as her right hand gripped the staff, focusing her power into the cataclysm she summoned. The demons burned and the Pride Demon roared its anger into the world. It fell to its knees, and Cassandra rammed her sword into its throat. Niamh flung her left hand upwards, the pain in her right arm a burning fire. Blood dripped from her nose, her eyes screwed shut against the pain as she yanked her arm away from the hole in the sky.

And the world went dark again.


	2. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Two - Patentia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Patentia is an OC of mine that's been kicking around in my head for the past decade or so. I hope you like her. As always, thank you to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for betaing. ♥

 

Silent as the shining river  
The templar’s armour gleaming  
Stalking through the forest green  
Moving through the clearest glens  
They hunt a Jenny—red and proud  
Who dared to humble them.

_\- Fragment of an unsigned poem found in the rubble at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, date unknown._

 

Patentia gripped her husband’s hand. “I am not leaving you behind. I don’t give a tinker’s damn what you think—I’m staying with you, even if I have to kill a hundred templars to keep you safe.” She lifted the greatsword, her chest heaving with exertion. It weighed more than she did, but it had been the only weapon in the hut they squatted in. If she only had a pair of daggers, or even a bow—she felt much more comfortable with those weapons. But, she had no option but the greatsword, so she would make do with it.

“Leave me,” Jason said, through chapped lips. “I am not worth it.”

“Void take you, Jase. You are more than worth it. I will kill anyone that comes for you.” She touched her hand to his face, hating the brand burned into the centre of his forehead, that marked him as Tranquil. Two weeks—it had been two weeks since that brand had been burned into him, burning the very essence of him out. Two weeks since she had broken him out of the hold the Templars had kept him in. She’d been too late to get to him before the Templars had taken him, she’d been called away to assist with the setting of a child’s bones a farmhold over from theirs. And now he was Tranquil.

She refused to believe that the Maker could be so cruel. Not after everything, not after they had finally found their peace, their little farm on the outskirts of the rebuilt Lothering. Not after she had been in Crestwood ten years ago, a girl of sixteen when the Blight had come. Not after he had finally accepted that he was human again. Not now.

Never now.

The first sign he was gone was the sight of a struggle in their home. All the stuff he'd bought to get ready for the baby. Including the wood and tools to build a crib and the instructions he'd asked someone to make that had more hand-drawn pictures than words... So he could actually understand it. It’d meant the world to her that he had gone out and asked someone to help him, a huge first step to admitting that there were some things beyond him, that he actually cared enough to make their child’s crib, instead of getting frustrated and growling at her when she tried to help him make sense of things.

“You are being illogical, Patentia,” he said, his voice that dreadful monotone that broke her heart.

Patentia closed her eyes for a moment, before she wrenched open the door, the heavy greatsword a hindrance in her current state. She would not let them get him again. Not now, not ever. She ran as fast as she could, a ferocious yell as she launched herself at a rogue templar, the sword dragging on the ground. It took a lot of strength for her to swing the sword, but somehow she managed it, a slow sweeping strike that hit the templar where his armour was weakest. Maker be damned if they’d get to him. Maker take them all—and if the Maker chose to call her to His side, then it would be her time to go. But not today. Never today.

She took on another templar, her blade swinging a slow, heavy arc that had it nearly wrenched from her hands from the sheer size and weight of it. Her eyes narrowed as she concentrated, breathing through her mouth with every outgoing breath, counting the templars as they advanced. There were five—possibly two more above them in the higher ground, but she didn’t quite know where. They would surround her soon, and she knew she needed her bow, or her twin daggers—but that meant abandoning Jase, and she refused to do that.

The next templar came at her with his sword raised high above his head, and Patentia swung out once again. Another slow swing, her grip on the greatsword lessening as it sliced through the third templar. Now breathing heavily, sweat dripping down her back, she let the sword fall as she grabbed the bow and quiver of arrows from the fallen templar. She nocked the arrow to the bow, and aimed, a clear shot that would inflict the most damage she could do. She loosed the arrow, and watched as it soared into the air, and hit the oncoming templar. He staggered backwards, but did not fall. She aimed and fired a second arrow, which found its mark and he fell. The next templar advanced as Patentia pulled another arrow from her quiver, but fell before she could loose the arrow.

Jase.

The sword in his hand shone in the brilliant sunlight, his golden hair a lion’s mane. He calmly advanced on the next templar, and Patentia gasped as his sword hit the templar. She loosed another arrow, and inched closer towards where Jase stood, her discarded greatsword in his hands. She watched him as he dispatched another templar, the same mechanical precision in everything he did. Patentia nocked another arrow to her bow, and fired at another templar.

When the battle had ended, Patentia dropped her bow and empty quiver, and rushed towards her husband. Relief flooded through her, causing her knees to buckle, and she gave way to the fear that had clawed inside her throughout the battle. They were safe, at least for the moment. She felt Jason’s arm as he caught her, and she gripped his other arm as black spots swam before her eyes, fatigue finally catching up with her.

  
-•-•-

 

Something warm and wet trickled down her forehead and into her eyes as she came to. Jase’s warm brown eyes showed flickers of concern, or maybe it was simply that he seemed worried for her. Whatever people said about the Tranquil, she didn’t feel it an accurate summation of them. Jase would care for her—just as she did for him—Tranquil or no. She raised herself up on one elbow, as Jase gently pushed her shoulder to make her lie down again. Pouting, she did so, and the warm cloth resumed its gentle ministrations.

“The Templars have gone. They will not be back,” Jase told her. “I buried the bodies beneath the tree—we do not want crows coming here.”

“There’s always crows with war,” Patentia retorted softly. “It’s their main meal.”

He looked past her, as he always did these days, to a spot just behind her head. “I would debate that,” he answered. “But something tells me arguing with you will just achieve nothing but you getting frustrated.”

Patentia sighed. There had been so many moments like these since he had been made Tranquil. The hardest thing to accept had been his change in personality—or rather, the subtle changes. Never exactly loquacious, but now he spoke in the monotone that just shattered her heart whenever she heard it. The cruelty done to him, and to others like him, made her blood boil. It wasn’t right—wasn’t fair—wasn’t just. They’d had no right to burn his magic out of him the way they had. Not when he had already survived what had been done to him before then.

The child in her belly gave her a swift kick. Forgetting that he was tranquil, Patentia grabbed his hand and held it to the place where their baby kicked. No reaction—not even a smile. Tears pricked her eyes, and she dashed them away with her other hand. No point crying over something they couldn’t change, no point to anything emotional around her husband. She could pretend it wasn’t her fault that he had been caught and subjected to this horrendous abuse of power—she could pretend that things would get better, that this tranquillity was a temporary state. No matter how much she pretended it wasn’t her fault, she blamed herself the most.

She shouldn’t have gone. She should’ve been selfish, and stayed in the hut with him—but her duties as a healer demanded otherwise. The horror of the child’s broken bones stayed with her—the horrors of coming home to find Jason gone had eclipsed those horrors. They had been happy once—and she would adjust to this new normal. Even if she hated it.

“I’ll start dinner,” she said, pushing herself up off the bed. Her belly got in the way, but she would make do with the meagre rabbit carcases she had hunted. Rabbit stew—again. They had been living off rabbit stew for the past six weeks, and she was right sick of the smell and the taste. Anything would be preferable to rabbit, but recent experiences made her wary of leaving Jase.

“Want me to cut turnips?” Jase asked, and Patentia nodded, swallowing back tears.

“Yes, please,” Patentia said softly, as she pulled on an old apron and tied it around her waist. She used the hem of her apron to surreptitiously wipe the tears away. Sniffing, she picked up the heavy cleaver, and set it down beside her other knives. Dinner had to be made, and she had to grin and bear it.

The Divine should hear of this. He had harmed no one, and never would. Templars must be made to answer for these abuses of power, she thought. The Conclave is soon—we can get to Haven, and then I can talk to the Divine.

“The Conclave is soon—I want to appeal to the Divine,” Patentia said. “We’ll leave at first light. Once we’ve seen to the chickens.”

She could only hope that the Divine would grant her an audience—that her pleas would be heard.


	3. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Three - Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for betaing. And thank you to the people who have read it and left feedback. It's always a lovely thing to receive. Also, a mention must be made to [Blue](http://archiveofourown.org/users/blueteaparty) whose suggestions I have used.

  


Starry skies, cloudless nights  
The world is all hush’d and bright  
Cometh the Lady with her light  
And bringeth her warmth with her

  
\- _Fragment of an unsigned poem, found in the ruins of Haven_

****

Cullen glanced up at the sound of footfall outside his tent. The starry night sky, the moon, and the snowdrifts meant that he had a clear view from his tent all the way up to the chantry doors. On a night like this, the world all white and hushed, he could feel peaceful—if only for a moment or two.

Sleep escaped him; the nightmares chasing him across the landscape of his dreams, and he would wake, gasping for breath, and throwing the nearest object to hand into the furthest corners of his tent. The narrow stretcher he slept on, with the rumpled pillows and the coverlet bunched up at his feet were not conducive to decent sleep. But he couldn’t remember the last good night’s sleep he’d had—the last ten years had taken its toll on him. He had a lantern and a book, and hoped he could at least chase away some of those memories with one of his favourite tales—one he always returned to in times of need and stress.

The tent flap lifted and Cullen tensed, but relaxed when the Herald entered. She carried a lantern, and in her other hand something that looked like a pot. He noticed her tired smile, and the blood-splattered apron she wore, and deduced that she had been assisting the healers with the worst of the injured. Despite that, it did nothing to distract him from her radiant looks.

Maker, she’s beautiful, he thought.

“I saw the light in your tent as I was coming back from assisting Adan and his healers,” the Herald said, her mouth twitching slightly at the corners.

Cullen gave her a taut nod, before moving a stack of books from his tiny table to the ground for the moment.

“And you came to check in on me? That wasn’t necessary,” he said, as he indicated that she should sit. “But thank you all the same.”

He watched as she set the small pot on the table, admiring her figure and her quick deft movements. In these quiet moments, he could forget the shadows, forget the nightmares, forget that she was a mage.

The Herald of Andraste— a mage. The Maker had a twisted sense of humour.

He could forget, too, if only for a moment, the horrors he’d been subjected to at the hands of other, less kinder mages ten years ago. Another time, and another place. He had mistrusted her earlier intentions, but she had worked alongside healers and tended wounds—unasked and unbidden until she was too tired to stand. He couldn’t help but be impressed.

“I’d check in on anyone if their lantern was still lit at midnight,” she said, as she sat down in a chair. She glanced down at her apron, made a face, and then stood, yanking the heavy leather and canvas apron over her head. Her unadorned, simple clothing made him smile softly, for he had thought Lady Niamh Trevelyan would be the kind to prefer lace and finery.

“I’m glad you decided to check in, actually,” Cullen said, as he sat down. “Can’t seem to sleep.”

“I figured,” she replied, a smile lighting up her face. “I was in the huts just now, tending to the wounded while Adan gets some rest—and saw that your tent lanterns were still lit.”

Cullen nodded. “And you? Aside from your helping the healers, do you not sleep well either?”

“Something like that,” she said. She poured the cocoa into the two cups she had brought with her, and pushed one across the table towards him. “This is my sure-fire insomnia remedy.” Her lips quirked up in a smile.

He chuckled, finding himself relaxing around the Herald. He picked up the cup and cradled it between his hands, savouring the warmth of the liquid within. “I’ve tried many insomnia remedies, but never hot cocoa. I look forwards to seeing if this one is effective.”

“Even if it isn’t, it’s still a bit of warmth and sustenance on a chilly night,” Lady Trevelyan replied, as she picked up her cup and took a sip. “And it’s not exactly the most effective of insomnia remedies, but it’s better than the Free Marches insomnia cure…”

“And what, exactly, is the Marchers cure?” Cullen’s brows rose. He took a sip of the hot liquid, and savoured it. “This is good hot cocoa. I’ve not had this quality since I left Ferelden ten years ago.”

“Valerian root tea with chamomile and damiana. Sometimes, I sweeten it with honey,” she made a disgusted face, and Cullen chuckled.

“I can imagine it not being terribly pleasant,” he agreed. “The worst I’ve had was one from the Ferelden templar barracks back in the day—it was to take a freshly-caught trout from the lake and strap it to your neck.”

Lady Trevelyan wrinkled her nose, before bursting out in laughter. “I’m sorry—a freshly-caught trout?”

Cullen nodded. “It was enough to make Knight-Commander Greagoir expressly forbid fishing at night. Some of the younger templars didn’t know the reason behind it, and the Knight-Commander would catch them with trout in their beds when it started to stink.”

“In Ostwick Circle, the Knight-Commander had to forbid the templars from trying to lick lampposts in winter—it was apparently all the rage when they would get new recruits from some of the smaller outcroppings in Ostwick.” She lifted her cup and took a sip.

“That was popular in Ferelden, too, Lady Trevelyan.”

She held up her free hand, and smiled. “You might as well call me Niamh—Lady Trevelyan is my grandmother.”

“If you say so Lady Niamh,” Cullen said. He scratched his neck absently, before picking up his cup again.

Niamh made a face. “Please, it’s just Niamh.”

“Very well. Niamh it is,” Cullen said, a blush creeping up his cheeks.

They sat in silence for a while, drinking their hot cocoa.

“I think I’ve seen you training recruits,” Niamh said. “I’ve patched a few of them up, actually. They don’t go to Adan—I think they think he’s a cranky bastard who won’t heal them if they go to him… “

“I keep telling them not to hit each other so hard—it’s training—not battle,” Cullen said. “They don’t seem to grasp the concept that you have to hold your shield up…”

“Adan doesn’t appreciate the myriad injuries they inflict on one another. The man is more an apothecary than a healer… He constantly moans that he is too busy to be healing every cut and scrape,” Niamh said, sipping her drink.

“With good reason. I think even Cassandra goes to see him when she needs something… I know I’d rather see him than some untrained sawbones,” Cullen agreed.

“I’d rather trust some untrained sawbones myself,” Niamh mused, almost to herself. Cullen followed the lift of her chin, as she appeared to ponder the possibilities of untrained sawbones. “Of course, mages have some skill as healers…”

Cullen nodded. “And I guess that you’re among those who do?”

“I’m no skilled healer—but I know enough to help. My role in the healing huts is minimal—I mainly help by holding them still while Adan does the work,” Niamh said, gesturing to her discarded, blood-splattered apron behind her on the chair. Her deft fingers circled the rim of her mug, absently. “They’d rather see me than Adan, though. I’m not sure why.”

“Probably because you’re kinder than him,” Cullen said softly. He looked at her hands with the slim, long fingers that seemed capable of a lot of things. “You at least heal their wounds without acerbic remarks.”

“How do you know?” Niamh asked, tilting her head to the side. “I could be just as bad.”

He caught the mischief in her eyes. It made him smile—a tiny, taut smile. “Something tells me you’re the type to let them off with a stern talking-to, after healing them, of course.”

“Who let that cat out of the bag?” Niamh quipped. “Here I thought my sternly-worded talks with the young recruits were a secret…”

Cullen shook his head. “I remember one young recruit—a boy who was destined for the templars, had to be stitched up. He came storming into my tent demanding to know who the healer was….”

“Did you tell him?” Niamh took a sip of hot cocoa, the smile still far too knowing for Cullen’s liking.

He narrowed his eyes at her for a brief second, before taking a sip of hot cocoa. “Yes. I don’t know if his eyes were the size of saucers, or whether he just… overdosed on elfroot.”

Niamh laughed softly. “I’m going to suggest that the younger recruits proceed much more gently with elfroot if that’s happening. I know Adan is complaining about his stocks of elfroot being much lower than usual.”

“It sounds like a sensible plan,” Cullen agreed, after a few moments of silence had passed between them.

“I only hope it works,” Niamh said. “Overdosing on elfroot—well, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon.” She flashed an impish smile.

“Your smile suggests you know more than you let on,” Cullen countered.

“Maybe. Maybe not,” Niamh’s smile was enigmatic now, and Cullen couldn’t help but smile back.

In these moments, he could relax. The hostility and fear he held towards mages were still there, still lurking in the back of his mind. His entire training had drilled into him that mages were meant to be feared, that they were evil and conniving. And the Circle in Ferelden had proven that to be the case. The nightmares haunted him worse without the lyrium he had taken for twelve years. It tripped him up when he thought about how long he had been a templar—the fresh-faced, innocent boy had died in Ferelden, long ago. He wondered if he had ever truly been that boy—the one who begged the Honnleath templars to take him under their wing and teach him. A lifetime of rigorous training, mental discipline and a keen understanding of what his duties meant had not prepared him for all the horrors—the failed harrowings, the rite of Tranquillity imposed upon troublemakers.

Yet for some reason, the Herald reminded him of another mage, long ago. A mage that had been good, and kind, and her smile had lit the room up. She had been kind to him, and that had mattered. Her name had been Hazel, and she had died in the Circle Tower in the days of Uldred’s rebellion. He remembered her screams as Uldred tortured her beyond what any soul should be asked to endure—broken, bloodied-- she had resisted till the last. And he had not been able to save her—he never could save anyone. Kirkwall had proven that.

He wondered if he could ever bring himself to trust another mage. He knew the Herald would not harm him—yet. It could be days—weeks, even, before she showed herself to be the danger he associated with all mages. He had known too many apostates—too many casualties of the horrors in Kirkwall, where mages had been desperate and turned to blood magic at every turn. His world had crumbled, and yet here he was—a member of a fledgling force trying to restore order in the same world.  
  
“It’s admirable, what you do for this fledgling Inquisition.” Cullen said, sipping his hot cocoa. “You heal people, you close rifts, you do a lot of good here. Your duties as Herald would keep you busy, but you also help out in other ways, beyond closing rifts.”

Colour flushed her cheeks. “I do only what I would ask of others,” she said, glancing down at her shoes. “If this Inquisition is to succeed, I go where I am most needed—whether that’s helping Adan, or closing rifts. I see no difference between Adan’s responsibilities and my own.”

He leaned back in his chair. “Yet, there are people who wouldn’t be alive if not for your work with the healers. Several of my men tell me you were the one who did the healing, not Adan.”

It had surprised him to hear that she worked alongside the healers. He had thought the Herald would be too busy to bother, too caught up in her self-importance, her divine quest to heal the sky, and the myriad tasks assigned to her. He had been surprised, too, that some of the troops trusted her over other non-mage healers, that she had a way with mending wounds and bones. Stern words, but kind actions, they had reported to him.

Niamh glanced down at her hands, and then back at him. Her intense blue eyes met his, and an understanding passed between them. “That might be so, but all I did was follow directions….” She drained her cup, and moved to stand up. “I should—I mean, you need…”

Cullen chuckled softly. “I know. But it has been a pleasure talking to you, Niamh.”

She left the tent, taking all the light and warmth with her. 


	4. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Four - Elinor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to [barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for betaing. <3 And here's another OC! Elinor has also been in my head for as long as Patentia-- they're both characters I wasn't quite finished with yet.

 

 

We study death, we understand  
The myriad ways it works  
How a small cut can kill a man  
Yet not how or why

_\- Fragment of an unsigned poem found in the rubble at the Temple of Sacred Ashes, date unknown._

****

The dusty library, the teetering shelves of books, and the scent of tallow candles made Elinor feel right at home. She made her way between the dusty shelves. He was still there, right where she had left him. He exemplified the absent-minded scholar; surprised when the teacup refreshed itself, as though by magic. He barely noticed her pouring the hot tea into his cup. Sliding into the seat on the opposite side of the table, she put the cup and the teapot down, and then picked up her quill, dipped it in ink, and resumed writing. Her paper rustled as she put the quill back down, and glanced over her words before silently sliding them across the table to Saun.

An apprentice handed her a sealed scroll, and Elinor took it, eagerly. She noticed the seal, frowning, as she carefully popped her knife beneath it, but did not break the wax. The seal appeared to be similar to that of the Seeker’s seal, but with a difference—a sword cut through the top and bottom of the eye. She’d not seen it before, and now she wondered.

_… I trust this letter finds you well, and that you are in good spirits, my friend. As I’m sure you’ve heard, the Conclave was destroyed, and the Inquisition has been declared reborn. And I am leading it—not that I have much choice in the matter, given that my hand glows green and can close the holes in the sky they call Fade Rifts. The Divine is dead, and I feel I am to blame for her death, inasmuch as I can remember. They’re still counting the dead, and each day, another name is listed. I feel a great sense of responsibility for this, for the deaths, for what now must come._

_But, I cannot dwell long on this, for the mark on my hand is our only hope at closing this gaping wound in the sky. I’m off now, into the Ferelden Hinterlands to find a chantry mother, who has a few good ideas, and I must also find Harry._

_All my love,_   
_Niamh._

Elinor gasped, trying to take in the words from her friend. She’d seen the hole in the sky—it was visible from Nevarra in the distance. The date at the top of the letter indicated that it’d been sent weeks ago. The seal now made sense to her, her vague recollection of the last Inquisition’s emblem now fixed clearly in her mind.

Saun’s head bobbed up from his papers long enough for Elinor to see the scowl, the dour expression that conveyed everything and nothing all at the same time. She mouthed an apology, before setting the pot back down on the intricate wrought-iron trivet. She picked up her quill again, and dipped it back into the pot of iron gall ink, and began tracing the runes onto fresh parchment. Days could pass with neither of them speaking to the other—but they worked in companionable silence, the only sound the scratching of quills on parchment, and the rustling of pages being turned. She returned to the heavy tome she pored over, frowning at the illustration of the chambers of the heart.

Footsteps in the otherwise silent library caused Elinor to glance at Saun before looking up.

“That’s twice in the span of twenty minutes,” Saun said frostily, as the young apprentice from before re-entered the room.

“Sorry, Enchanter Neroli, Enchanter Infusco,” the girl said, her eyes wide with fright. “I forgot about the second one in the rush to get the first one to Enchanter Infusco.”

“It’s all right, Esti,” Elinor smiled at their hapless assistant. “I think Enchanter Neroli forgets that he was once in your position.”

“I was not, Eskarne,” Saun said in his usual cold voice. “You’re dismissed.”

“Wait, Esti,” Elinor put her hand on the girl’s arm. “I need to talk to you about a potential expedition to the Fallow Mire, which I think is being confirmed in this scroll.”

“Yes, Enchanter?” Esti said, worrying her lip with her teeth. “I don’t know much about the Fallow Mire, but it sounds like a wasteland.”

“Would you consider coming with us?” Elinor asked gently. “It would be a long journey, but you would learn so much by coming along.”

“I’d like to see the world,” Esti’s pensive tone made Elinor smile. “The Fallow Mire would be a great place to start, though I have a feeling t’would be cold and miserable, and full of corpses.”

“Then start packing,” Elinor said. “We leave as soon as Enchanter Neroli decides we’re off.”

When Esti Eskarne left the library, Elinor turned her attention to opening the sealed tube. She read the spiky handwriting from the Avvar chieftain she’d been corresponding with for the past six months, gnawing her bottom lip as she read. Though the letter was short it contained confirmation of their expedition to the Fallow Mire, in the far south of Ferelden.

“Oh, good. The Avvar have kindly agreed to us going to the Fallow Mire,” Elinor said, her voice deliberately cheerful. “How fantastic. A good chance to look at water-bloated corpses and study them in depth. I’ve been waiting for this answer for weeks.”

Saun stared at her, blankly. Elinor smiled up at him. “We’re going to the Fallow Mire—you were complaining about not having access to bloated corpses—the Mire has a thousand of them.”

“You’re remarkably cheerful about this, you know,” Saun pointed out. His quill resumed scratching sentences across the parchment as he stared at Elinor.

“How often do we get access to corpses in their bloated state? It’s not like Nevarra sends all its death-by-drownings to our Circle,” Elinor continued. “And you’ve been wanting to go to the Mire for months.”

“I suppose you’re right. We leave in the morning, yes?” Saun said, rising from his desk and unfolding himself.

Elinor struggled to hide her dismay.

“Saun, we’d have less than four hours to get organised. It’s just not possible.

Leaving in the morning would mean very little sleep tonight—organising field kits, not to mention clothing sufficient for the long expedition from Nevarra to the Fallow Mire in Ferelden. The likelihood of staying at inns would dwindle, especially with the length of time it would take them to get there. She wondered just how long they would be on the road, and how cold they would get. The heavy cloaks they would need, the heavy, unattractive marsh-waders they would need—her mind just reeled with the enormity of the task before her.

“Yes,” she said, as she resigned herself to a night of very little sleep, and exhausting activity. She could delegate some of it—to the girl who had come to tell them the expedition had been approved—but Saun would want her to supervise the packing of the supplies.

“And get Eskarne to help you. She might as well come with us, seeing that we’re probably going to need her,” Saun added as an afterthought.

“Ahead of you on that thought, you cranky bugger,” Elinor couldn’t resist teasing him.

  
-•-•-

  
Yawning, Elinor stretched out her arms. She looked up at the teetering pile of valises and suitcases, boxes and leather bags as they were loaded into the donkey cart. Her heavy leather hobnail boots and sensible travelling outfit were clean, but she knew they wouldn’t stay that way for long. She pulled her gloves on, the fine kidskin soft on her hands. A broad brimmed hat atop her head, she glanced behind her to see the young assistants loading the final field box.

“Careful,” she said, as the man loaded it onto the cart and looped the rope through the handle. “Just…. Let me do it?”

“Why?”

Elinor took a deep breath, counted backwards from twenty in old Nevarran, and forced a smile onto her face. “Because there’s extremely delicate glass philtres in there. I should _not_ have to explain this to you.”

“Or are you merely too ignorant to understand basic instructions?” A cold, imperious voice from behind them made Elinor turn around. Saun stood with his feet set apart, his arms gesticulating. “The glass contains volatile essences, that, should they be disturbed, will explode, leaving all of us—you included—badly burned and quite incapable of doing the work required on this expedition.”

Elinor smothered a giggle behind her hands. Looking at the frightened young assistant, and then back at Saun, she dared not catch his eye for risk of losing her composure further. Instead, she took the heavy leather bag from the hapless assistant, and climbed up onto the steps of their carriage.

Esti climbed up with Elinor, her movements limber and swift. She buzzed with excited energy, which Elinor found infectious. She didn’t know what she would do without Esti, and her clever mind and endless enthusiasm for anything Elinor did.

“This is going to be an adventure, isn’t it, Enchanter?” Esti said, brimming with unsuppressed joy. “I’ve never left Nevarra, so this is going to be fun.”

Elinor smiled. “Ferelden is a land of strangeness, where their dogs are prized and valued like we Nevarrans revere our dead. The Avvar are a people from the high country, and their ways are stranger still. But don’t worry, we have safe conduct guaranteed through their lands… at least, from one chieftain. There’s no telling what we might encounter if their chieftain has been deposed.”

The team of black Fereldan Forder horses were a well-matched, hearty breed. Chosen because they would be going deep into Ferelden territories where only the Avvar lived, she had every confidence that the horses would last the journey. A slow meandering through the countryside, frequent stops along the way, she hoped it wouldn’t grate on Saun’s nerves too much. But, they had no choice in the matter—horses were only horses, after all.

“Let’s just get on our way. We should reach the halfway point between here and Cumberland by nightfall. I think…” her voice trailed off. Saun climbed in beside her, and settled on the seat, his long legs outstretched.

“Sounds good,” Saun said, tucking his chin down on his chest, and prepared to sleep.

She glanced out the window, as the coach trundled down the driveway, taking them away from Nevarra. The crunch of gravel beneath the wheels and the clop-clop of the horses hooves soothed her, but she had never slept as easily as the man beside her did. The basket at her feet contained the only non-work project she could take with her. While Saun slept, she would knit, and talk to Esti, and wile away the long hours between here and their rest stop. The shawl would be made from dark wool, contrasted with bands of lighter wool would hopefully keep the chill wind out while they worked.

She picked up her knitting, and began. The Breach loomed high above them in the sky, and Elinor wondered whether abandoning their research in the Fallow Mire would be worthwhile. She briefly considered a change of destination—to wherever Niamh was, but realised they could not go and help her friend, no matter how much she wished to. Wherever her friend was, Elinor knew her shawl would be done by the next time she saw her.


	5. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Five - Niamh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we secure the horses for the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks goes to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for her fantastic and insightful betaing. You make this story so much better for your betaing comments. <3\. Also, thank you to each and every one of you who has commented so far. This fic is a labour of love, and I hope you enjoy it.

 

 

Niamh wiped the sweat from her brow with equally-sweaty hands. In the late winter, the snow began melting in great drifts, and coated the pathways in slushy muck that hardened in the evenings to a slippery death. The Crossroads weren’t far now, her pack heavy with the provisions that she had gathered. Pine trees shed their heavy loads of snow in icy rain, the ground soaking. The chill winds still blew fierce and cutting through the trees, and wrapped everyone in icy blankets. She shivered in the wind, but the exertion of lugging ten dead rams to the Crossroads would make anyone sweat. Her undershirt stuck to her back, and sweat dried, itchy and untouchable. She would need a hot bath—or any bath at all, when they returned to Haven.

She climbed the steps leading to the building the hunter had last been seen behind, and stood stock-still as she recognised the tall, lanky profile and the voice speaking to the hunter.

“I can’t promise you that I’ll get the meat, but I’ll try,” the man said, and Niamh’s face split into a wide grin.

_Harry._

She reached out her hand to tousle his hair. He turned to Niamh, bowling her over in a flying, disgraceful, bear hug that sent both of them falling to the ground. Relief washed over her in waves, even as she struggled to breathe beneath her cousin’s bulk. Pushing upwards, and feeling the cold steel of his armour, she kneed him in the groin, and he immediately realised he had been crushing her.

“I don’t know about you, but should we help her?” Varric’s deadpan brought a derisive snort from Cassandra.

Niamh heard Cassandra slip her sword from its sheath at her side. “No, no. It’s quite okay. He’s just relieved to see me in one piece.”

“I was worried, Neevy…” Harry said as he offered her a hand up. He gave his best approximation of a Marcher’s scowl, but it came off as more of an Orlesian pout.

“You were meant to find me in Haven… where’d you go?” Niamh asked. A broad smile spread across her face. Relief washed through her, glad he hadn’t been caught in the explosion at the Conclave. “Especially seeing as we’d agreed to go to Aunt Sorcha’s afterwards—if things went badly.”

"I was running late. I... Sent a message," Harry said, frowning. "And I couldn't abandon the people here.... I've been waiting for word from Haven, but it's never very clear. All this talk of some Herald?"

“You’re looking at her,” Niamh said, as she checked him over. “Somehow, I wound up with the glamourous job of being the Herald of Andraste….” She pulled a face, though behind her, she heard Varric’s guffaw.

“Yeah, if you call flinging your hand at some hole in the sky glamourous,” Varric deadpanned.

“Does this mean I have to start worshipping you? Prostrate myself before you? Call you anything other than Neevy?” Harry’s voice took on a slightly unnerved tone.

Niamh shook her head. “Neevy’s still fine, Harald,” she said. “I mean, as far as you’re concerned. Others—well, they…” She broke off with a shrug of her shoulders.

“She is the only one capable of sealing the Breach,” Solas explained.

She turned to face the three who had followed her into danger. “Meet Harry—my cousin,” she said, delighted at the prospect of having him with her once more. Her broad smile from before still stretched her face from ear to ear.

Varric casually strolled up to Harry, arm extended. “Welcome, kid. Let’s hope that sword on your belt is good for killing demons. We’ve got a lot of them.”

Harry shook Varric’s hand, a tad nervously, Niamh observed. His very Orlesian pout made her chuckle softly under her breath, as Solas and Cassandra introduced themselves.

“We have the meat you were asked to find,” Niamh said, as she opened the massive sack Solas had been hauling for the past three hours. “Ten rams, just as you requested.”

“Thanks. A lot of folk will have food in their bellies thanks to you, Herald,” the hunter said, as both Harry and Niamh helped unload the bleeding carcases from the sack.

“There wasn’t time to hang them,” Niamh apologised, wiping bloodied hands on her pants. “So I’m not sure how safe the meat is.”

“I’ll hang them,” the hunter said, taking the meat hooks from his belt. “You’ve done a good job. We’re much indebted to you, milady.”

“If there’s anything else I can do, please let me know.” Niamh shivered in the cold, wishing she’d thought to ask for a new cloak. The wind blew cold and icy around them, and she wondered how the refugees would cope without blankets, and other necessities. She made a mental note to send a raven to her brother Dougal. He’d get the refugees whatever they needed, and for free. She’d stand over him if she had to, to ensure he didn’t charge them.

Turning back to her companions, she smiled brightly at them. “We’ve got a few things left to do here—we need to find the horsemaster, and then arrange for him to get suitable accommodation in Haven for both him and his teams of horses. I also need to send Dougal a raven to see if we have blankets for the refugees, and Harry, have you heard where this horsemaster lives?”  
  
"Dougal?" Cassandra frowned, confused.

"He runs a smuggling ring out of the Free Marches-- he's my eldest brother," Niamh explained to Cassandra.

Harry nodded, and Niamh smiled. “He’s not far from here. Maybe a twenty minute walk?”

Niamh noticed how her cousin shone with enthusiasm. He really did love all animals, and Niamh knew it would only be a matter of time before he butted heads with the horsemaster, in his enthusiasm and inexperience, and his general knowledge of animal husbandry.

“Please, for the love of Andraste, let me talk to him first,” Niamh said, as she watched Harry’s lips purse into the very Orlesian pout of his mother.

“Why?”

“You know why, you git,” Niamh said, her words warm despite her stern face. “You’re likely to lecture the poor man on the proper care of horses, when he’s probably being doing the job for longer than you’ve been alive.”

“Fine,” Harry agreed, his face betraying his thoughts. Niamh smiled at him.

“Good lad,” Niamh smiled. “It’s for the best, though. This man comes highly recommended by Commander Cullen, and I’m inclined to trust his judgement when it comes to Fereldan horsemasters. You may pat them afterwards, though.”

Harry lit up like a kid at Saturnalia.

They set off in the direction of the Redcliffe farms. Snow in the air made Niamh shiver, but her magic kept the worst of the cold at bay. She worried for the refugees, wishing she could do more than what she already was, and hoping that Dougal would agree to her terms. She bit down on her lip as she thought about how long it would take for the bird to fly to Ostwick and back, unless Dougal was already in Ferelden—it was entirely possible he could be.

Snow still hung heavily on the trees, and the wind dislodged great sheets of snow as the branches swayed under their heavy burdens. The first hints of spring could be seen in the undulating hills and valleys they traversed, little birds twittering in the bushes and rising in flight as they passed by their nests. Niamh smiled softly to herself as she watched them, flitting between the branches and soaring up into the sky.

A commotion not far off caught her ear, and her hand reached for her staff, preparing for another battle against both rebel mages, and renegade templars. Behind her she heard the familiar scrape of steel as Cassandra and Harry drew their swords. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Varric ready his crossbow, and Solas his staff.

She didn’t enjoy killing her fellow mages, but they’d left her no choice. She wished desperately to talk sense into them, but these mages had made their stance clear. They’d elected to die by the sword, fighting for what they truly believed in—martyring themselves for the cause. She closed her eyes, summoning the strength for the truly horrific battle to come. They would, she knew, resort to blood magic, binding themselves to demons and controlling them. But maybe, just maybe, she could avoid further bloodshed. She motioned behind her for her companions to stay their blades.

“We can avoid this,” Niamh shouted above the din, hoping to reach the rebels before they attacked her party on sight. “Please, listen to reason. There is no need to fight your fellow mages, no need to martyr yourselves to the cause. I want mages to be able to choose their destinies just as much as you do—it doesn’t have to come to bloodshed.”

“Fuck off. You were part of the problem, First Enchanter Trevelyan!” A young man shouted at Niamh, and she recognised him.

“That’s not true, Aethelwulf, and you know it,” another mage rebuked the young man who had spoken. Another familiar voice, and Niamh smiled softly.

Not all of her apprentices had perished, then.

“Clara, it’s good to see you unharmed,” Niamh said, as the girl dropped her hostile stance. “What happened to you after the explosion?”

“We were told that we were all rebels now, and that our only chance for safety was to run,” Clara said, her voice halting on the words. “If I’d known you’d survived, I would’ve looked for you.”

Niamh smiled, but it was a sad smile. “Oh, I survived,” she said grimly, as shooting pain stabbed up her arm. “I’ve got a glowing wounded hand that somehow manages to close Fade Rifts, and we’re not sure how, or why it happened. But, go to Haven and join us there—we could always do with another mage or two helping in the healers tents.”

Clara nodded. “Haven it is, First Enchanter Niamh,” she said, and gestured to Aethelwulf to follow her. Grudgingly, the other mage followed Clara up the path towards the Crossroads, where they would find the rest of the Inquisition waiting for them, ready to bring them back to Haven. Aethelwulf scowled at Niamh over his shoulder, but Clara’s arm gripped his, and he followed her.

Niamh wiped her palms on her leggings, and glanced at her small group of companions. She bit her lip, a nervous smile crossing her face. She had thought this encounter would end with killing two of her former apprentices—mages that she had seen Harrowed and welcomed into the ranks of enchanters. The gratitude that she felt towards the Maker that these apprentices still lived, and the certainty that others of her Circle still lived grew steadily through the long trek to the Redcliffe farms.

Traversing icy pathways and narrow passages, they made their way through the Ferelden hinterlands. Slow going, rough tracks that petered out into nothing more than suggestions of tracks. Goats, sheep, and druffalo moved through the bushes in small flocks, the goats descending on shrubs of greenery and ravenously devouring them, destroying plants as they trampled on other goat leavings. A small smile crossed Niamh’s face as she watched the goats frolic, the kids jumping off branches and springing across the logs.

When at last they climbed the final hill, sweat beaded Niamh’s brow, and she puffed lightly. She wiped her brow with her sleeve, and looked up towards the stables. The buildings were in good order, clearly having withstood the Blight and the siege of Redcliffe twelve years before. The neatly thatched rooves, and the fresh wind blew the scent of horse into the air. Niamh’s throat began to hurt, and she bit her lip, determined to stubborn out her allergic reaction. She lifted her neckerchief, wrapping it around her nose and mouth.

“Oh Niamh,” Harry caught her other elbow. “Let’s get you away from here. I’ll go talk to the horsemaster.”

Niamh shook him off. “Harry, I’ll be fine,” she said firmly. “I’ll just take a potion when I get back to Haven. It’s not as bad as it used to be.”

“But Niamh…”

“Harry…” she warned, as she trudged up the path. “I’ll be fine.”

Harry gave her a wounded look, but she stared back at him, her eyes steely with resolve.

Varric broke the staring contest, clearing his throat. “I don’t know about you, but those demons look like they need killing,” he drawled, as he removed Bianca from his back.

Niamh and Harry sighed simultaneously, and turned to see the demons bearing rapidly on them. Her hand throbbed as she drew nearer to the Rift. The pull of power that emanated from the Rift threatened to overwhelm her, to draw her closer and closer into that maelstrom that poured demons from the sky in droves. She swirled an ice storm around a rage demon, and heard it crack into nothing as two swords hit it in perfect synchronicity. From behind her came the sound of Varric’s crossbow, and Solas’s magic, and Niamh twirled her staff as her magic encased another demon that fell, wreathing him in flame that burned bright and consumed him.

When the demons were vanquished and the rift closed, Niamh watched as her cousin lost the contents of his stomach. She handed Harry the clean handkerchief once he had finished, and watched as he wiped his mouth. Sighing, she then handed him a waterskin.

“You done showing everyone the contents of your stomach?” Niamh teased. Harry tried to hand the waterskin back, but Niamh held out her hand. “You keep it—you might need it again.”

He managed a weak grimace. They waited a few more moments as Niamh pulled a small bundle of herbs from her pouch, handing them to Harry. “You might want to chew this, it’ll help.” Harry took the herbs from Niamh, and put them in his mouth, chewing them. He made a face as they moved away from the battlefield.

Scavenging birds already circled high above, calling and cawing as they darted down towards where the corpses lay. The harsh cawing carried for miles in the echoing valley, the wind blowing icy tendrils of late winter. Niamh and her group trudged onward, the smell of horses getting stronger with each passing footfall.

Her throat ached, and she cursed the Maker that she had been afflicted with such an inconvenient allergy. She put her scarf around her nose and mouth once more, holding it there with her other hand. They made their way up the long, winding path to Redcliffe’s fertile and abundant farms, the tattered banners with the mabari rampant on the quartered shield blowing in the wind. They flapped in a desolate remembrance of the Blight, and the horrors of what happened in Redcliffe city.

“I believe this is the horsemaster’s house,” Solas said, breaking the comfortable silence.

“I’ll be fine, Harry,” Niamh caught her cousin’s concerned look from the corner of her eye. “Like I’ve said, I’ll simply take a potion when we get back to Haven.”

A silent, furious conversation followed, in looks and facial expressions that said everything and nothing simultaneously. Cassandra cleared her throat loudly, causing Niamh to startle.

“As fascinating as watching the two of you is, we’re very close to the hut. Let us do this, and have it done. The Herald is yet to address the clerics in Val Royeaux, and we will need horses if we are to have a cavalry force,” Cassandra said, and Niamh nodded.

“You’re right,” Niamh agreed.

Her throat ached badly by the time they reached the modest home, situated high on the hill, overlooking the vista of gentle pastureland, still covered beneath snow. The smoke rose from the chimney in a graceful grey plume, the fine layer of soot covering the snow, making it grey and brown in the afternoon light. The entire world felt grey and dull, the harsh light from the Breach an eerie green glow that mimicked the sky when snow fell.

Niamh rapped on the door, trying to ignore the urge to sneeze. Her nose scrunched up as she let out a sneeze.

_Unavoidable, really. But I’m the one they asked to talk to Master Dennet. You didn’t really think this through, did you, Neevy?_ She thought wryly, as the door swung open to reveal a balding man with greying hair and a neatly-trimmed beard.

“Horse- _achoo_ -master D- _achoo_ \- enet,” Niamh said, through her sneezes. She held up her hand, forestalling the inevitable questions. “I’m Niamh Trevelyan, and I’m with the Inquisition.”

“Ah yes!” Dennet’s voice was mild. “And are you all right?”

“I’ll be fine—” she broke off to sneeze again. “Once I get away from the magnificent beasts.” She held up her hand once more, and regained her composure. “It’s a terribly unfortunate allergy that ends up inconveniencing me at the most, well…” another sneeze. Her scarf didn’t seem to be helping her, and she wondered whether she needed a better one.

“What she means to say is that she’s fine, and that we’re here to talk horses,” Harry put in helpfully.

Niamh sighed. “I’m sorry, Master Dennet,” she said, as she subtly stepped on Harry’s foot. “Commander Cullen sent us to you, because he says you are the best horsemaster this side of the Frostbacks.”

“I see.” He gave Niamh an appraising stare. Crossing his arms over his chest, the horsemaster looked between Niamh, Harry, Cassandra, Solas, and Varric, and then at the door. Niamh followed his gaze as a woman came in.

She had straw in her hair, and a heavy apron splattered with blood that reminded Niamh of her work in the camps. Her sleeves were slashed from the shoulders down, clearly in a hurry.

“Master Dennet? That mare’s still in labour, can’t find a leg. Think it might be arse about, but I can’t feel a blessed thing.” The woman panted after delivering the rush of words.

Niamh prodded Harry, a gentle nudge with her elbow. “You might have your chance to shine, farm kid,” she said softly, as Harry jolted to attention. “Go on, this is your moment.”

“But—”

“Go on, if anyone can do it, it’s you.” Niamh gave him an encouraging nod, before Harry hastened out the door. She grinned behind her scarf as she imagined the broad grin that crossed his face, lighting him up like the kid he was.

  
-•-•-

 

Niamh looked up the hill towards the light that shone brightly in the windows of the horsemaster’s house, and sighed. The past several hours had involved the arduous task of setting up the forwards camp in the Redcliffe farmlands. Her shoulders ached from the hours she’d spent cutting elfroot into fine shreds, and transferring them to a cauldron under which a small flame burned. As the sun began sinking slowly behind the hills, she looked up, seeing the first stars of the evening blinking into existence.

“Halt!” A scout called out to the incoming person, and Niamh’s attention turned to the scout’s call. Solas materialised out of the gloaming, carrying a brace of rabbits.

“I merely went to hunt for some sustenance for our evening meal. It is only me,” Solas called out.

Niamh’s eyebrows rose as Solas came into the circle around the fire. “I should probably check on Harry,” she said, as she rose to stretch. “He’s been gone a long while.”

Harry truly was the only person she would willingly walk into a stable for. Only him.

She took the lantern a scout handed to her, and once more wrapped her scarf around her nose and mouth. Venturing up the pathway to the stables, she found herself sneezing several times in rapid succession. The smell of straw and amniotic fluid met her nose, a strangely clean scent that she’d smelled only twice before, and both times had been with Harry.

She felt like she were drowning under the responsibility of leading this fledgling Inquisition, the millions of souls that looked to her as though she were Andraste reborn. She slid down the wall of the stable, and put her head in her hands. Overwhelmed by the enormity of the task before her, tears welled in her eyes. Just for now, she could pretend that she was still a Circle Mage, without the tens of thousands of worries and cares now on her shoulders. She pulled herself together after a few minutes of self-pity, and stood to peek over the barn door.

Harry sat in the box stall, a foal in his arms, and his eyes closed. The little foal’s chest rose and fell, and the mare mussed Harry’s hair with her mouth.

“Alive, then?” Niamh asked softly, determined not to sneeze, or disturb the scene.

“Only just…” Harry replied. “It’s still touch and go with this little one—she was too weak to stand, so I had to help her. She’s had a drink, but it wasn’t much.”

“Does the horsemaster know?” she asked, leaning over the railing of the box stall so she could look at the tiny foal.

“He came by earlier. He was very impressed that I managed to deliver this little one, and he says he’ll send his best horses to the Inquisition at Haven. He’s said he may not need to come himself, but I convinced him we needed him too.”

They looked at one another, then at the horse, and the foal sleeping in Harry’s arms. The golden lantern glowing in the stables and the smell of good clover hay and fresh oaten straw combined to give her peace, at least for a moment. At least here was something good—something that she could say was one thing that had gone right for them. Right now, she could see the results of what she was working so hard to save, to put right.


	6. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Six- Patentia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Patentia and Jase make it to Haven with the help of a living legend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to the amazing [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for her betaing. Without you, this fic would be an absolute mess. Thanks must also be given to my dad, who is a Glaswegian Scot, for helping me get the dialect right.
> 
> Thank you to everyone reading and commenting. And to the people on the King and Commander Discord group for their fun and companionship. It makes writing so less lonely a task.
> 
> On with chapter six!

 

 

 

Patentia’s heart ached as she saw the hole in the sky. Their chance to talk to the Divine, and have her see the damage done by templars would never eventuate now. The Conclave had failed, and she would never get her chance. It was too late to turn back towards Lothering, they had to continue on their trip.

Silent, fat tears trickled down her cheeks as she railed inwardly against the Maker and his cruelty. It simply was not fair. They had been denied a chance to show the Divine what happened when innocent mages got caught in the crossfire—mages that had done nothing wrong were still caught and branded by the Templars. Once, a long time ago, she might’ve believed that all mages were dangerous, but she did not believe that now.  
  
Now she knew better, because of Jase. Because of everything that had happened between them, the love shared and the joy in the simple union of heart and soul. That ancient, time-honoured knowledge of men and women, in being held, and in holding. She protected him, sheltered, nurtured him. And he had done the same.  
  
They stopped at quiet little inns along the way. Once, she would’ve avoided the inns at waysides, out of concern for Jase’s comfort. It hurt too much now to consider avoiding them. She slept poorly as it was, but the last few nights had been comfortable, without the constant fear that Templars would come and take Jase from her once again. It still concerned her, but at least in an inn, they would have fair warning.  
  
Lost in her thoughts, she stared blankly ahead, ignoring all but the fluttering of the babe in her womb, the babe Jase had been slowly getting attached to. Now, with him tranquil, she wondered if Jase would ever emotionally bond with their child. Hopefully, when she placed their child in his arms for the first time, he would smile a rare, sweet smile that made him look younger. She wondered how deep the Tranquillity went—whether it cut off every emotion except the bodily ones of hunger, tiredness, aches and pains.

There were a million misconceptions, she had found, surrounding those who were tranquil. Some of the common ones were that they were mindless automatons, a body that wanted for nought— that they needed no sleep and could work from sunup to sundown without food or water. In her adjustment to this new normal, she had tried to impose a routine, a life with order for both of them. It broke her heart to think of the thousands— or millions— of tranquil out there with their severed connection to the Fade, to think of those mages whom the Chantry had deemed too dangerous to be allowed their Maker-given gift of magic. Jase’s magic had never been powerful— he had been wild and uncontrolled, but she had never shied away from him, or his magic. The early years of their relationship had been about his hard-won trust, the way she had calmly put out the fires he started with his uncontrollable magic, and continued encouraging him, slowly, towards a place where they both felt they understood the magic he wielded.

The gut-wrenching fear of what the Chantry and the Templars would do if they caught the both of them spurred her on— they had abandoned their house, their lives in Lothering to talk to the Divine, and the Divine was now dead. She had no choice but to continue on— for turning back would only lead to heartbreak and despair. The dread in the pit of her stomach settled uncomfortably— though whether that was the baby kicking her or something far deeper— she wasn’t sure.

The track the donkey trod had been recently made wider, the road expanding with the recent flurry of activity in the hinterlands. It seemed as though someone had been hard at work, clearing the roads enough for travellers to pass through, and new watchtowers erected where old ones had been. They had withstood Meghren’s army, but not the Blight. The echoes of the civil war, in the cleared fields where once houses had been, now reduced to piles of crumbling bricks and mortar were stark reminders of how much things had changed in the ten years since the Blight. She failed to take in the beauty of the Ferelden hinterlands, failed to see the beautiful flowers and birds flitting about in the warm early spring sunshine.  
  
“I thought Crestwood suffered badly enough during the Blight, but look here,” Patentia lifted her arm and pointed at a scarred oak tree. “It looks like this has seen touches of blighted blood on the trunk, the tree no longer grows here.”  
  
Jase nodded, but kept silent. She knew his silences well, and knew when to push him into talking. This wasn’t one of those times. The donkey cart continued picking its way along the track towards Haven, carefully navigating the ruts in the road, and the undulations of the land. Long stretches of silence no longer bothered her, but sometimes, she wished he were loquacious instead of taciturn.  
  
Ahead, she saw an unfamiliar banner flying in the breeze. It looked like the Seekers of Truth, but she noticed the sword that went through the eye. A new order, obviously. Patentia had no great love of the Seekers, and she outright detested the Templars for what they had done to her husband. If this new group with their banner flying high were another arm of the Chantry’s overreaching power—the same power that had given their templars the right to burn out someone’s magic and leave them like Jase, she would turn around and leave. Her suspicion could not be contained, for she knew the hate that simmered beneath her calm façade would one day explode.  
  
She hated the Templars—hated their unmitigated, unstoppable power and their right to make any mage suspected of blood magic tranquil. She hated the Chantry, and at times, Andraste herself for her declarations. Jase had never been someone who would harm others; even in his days as a werewolf, and then in his slow transition to human life again, he had never harmed anyone. She cursed the Maker, night after night, railing against his plan for his people. The Maker remained silent, immutable through her desperation, and she lost her faith in him just a little bit more every day. She knew of people who had been through worse than her, and still retained their faith, but she did not. A Maker that was cruel and capricious, her prayers falling on deaf ears night after night, as she sobbed herself to sleep, was not worth her reverence.  
  
The donkey suddenly brayed a warning, jolting Patentia out of her thoughts. Up ahead, she saw a small group fighting off a d ozen templars. She reached for her bow and quiver, handing the reins to Jase, before jumping down from the donkey cart, and jarring her back as she landed. She bit back the cry of pain that escaped unheeded, as she rushed towards the fray.  
  
“Get back to your cart, foolish girl!” An old woman with eyes of steel and fire shouted at her, and Patentia nodded, mutely following the woman’s orders. “Rufus, go with them!”  
  
“Aye!” a lanky Marcher with red hair obeyed the old woman’s orders.  
  
It seemed to Patentia that whoever this old woman was, people did what she said. Herself, included. She glanced behind her as she walked back to the donkey and Jase, hefting herself back up with the aid of the man the old lady called Rufus. She heard the ringing of steel on steel, the battle a fierce, ferocious contest that the band of Marchers dispatched swiftly.  
  
By the time the danger had passed, the old woman walked casually up to the donkey cart. She wiped her sword clean on the swathe of grass, and assessed Patentia with knowing eyes.  
  
“’Spose you’re gangin’ tae Haven, lass?” The Marcher accent softened into a voice that sounded almost Fereldan.  
  
“Uh,” Patentia floundered, as the old woman glanced down at her belly, and then at the brand on Jase’s forehead.  
  
“We’re headed there. You’ll be better served travelling with me than just your husband,” the old woman said, and Patentia got the impression that she missed nothing. “Rufus, Dougal, Cathal—” three men sprang to action. “Help her down, and get her husband into something a bit less conspicuous than his current getup. Damn Templars will… well, you know what to do, lads.”  
  
She watched, dumbfounded, as the three men helped Jase change into less faded clothing, their actions kind and gentle.  
  
“Who are you?” Patentia asked, once they were safely ensconced in the old woman’s turnip cart.  
  
“Tommie,” the old woman said, taciturn now that she had them safe.  
  
“How can we trust you?” Patentia asked belatedly, realising that they could be headed into a trap.  
  
The old woman chuckled softly under her breath. “You’re just now realising the stupidity of trustin’ strangers on the road? Didn’t you learn anythin’ from runnin’ with yer husband?”  
  
“How do you know so much?” Patentia’s face creased into a frown.  
  
“I know you, lass. You were in Denerim ‘round the time after the Blight. Down a dark alley ye went, fearless as anything. You found a man, did you not? Wondered how you knew to look there?”

Patentia’s frown deepened, and the old woman chuckled again.  
  
“You were a Jenny then, but not any longer. Ye moved on, once ye found yer callin’.”  
  
“And again, how do you know me?” Patentia said, her tone confused.  
  
“Never you mind. Now, are we heading to Haven, or do I have to get my boys here to pick ye both up and carry ye there?”  
  
It seemed that arguing with this old woman would be like milking a goat determined not to be milked. Patentia simply shrugged, and the woman—Tommie—smiled at her.

  
  
-•-•-

  
  
The stout doors that shut Haven off from the rest of Ferelden creaked on ancient hinges. The snow had fallen thick and fast overnight, and Patentia breathed a sigh of relief as the door opened to admit their party. The donkey cart climbed the slow incline upwards, and Patentia moved from the seat to clamber down, feeling shaky and hungry. The baby kicked, and she let out a slow breath of air as Rufus and Cathal helped her down.  
  
Dougal vanished the second they arrived at the heavy town doors, a nod and a wave to his grandmother. Patentia supposed he was off to do her bidding once more. As they waited for the creaky doors to open, she wondered just what would happen now she and Jase were in Haven. She felt curious eyes on her as she and Jase walked up the shallow steps, and heard the mutterings as the smugglers closed ranks around her and Jase.  
  
“A sack of bones, a pregnant girl, and who in Andraste’s name is the old woman?” A rude voice wondered aloud as Tommie guided them confidently through the crowd. Patentia looked around them, and saw they passed the tavern. Light spilled from the windows and bathed the snow in a warm glow, but the tavern was not their destination. Tommie led them up another set of steps and to a trio of huts.  
  
“Ye in there, lass?” Tommie asked, rapping on the door of the hut in the centre.  
  
The door opened to reveal a woman wearing a blood-splattered leather and canvas apron. Her twin buns sat low at the nape of her neck, her hair a golden red that shimmered in the light. Eyes danced with merriment, a scar ran through her left eye, and a second, older older scar on her right cheek. Patentia glanced between Tommie and the younger lady, marking the familial resemblance. They had the same eyes, and the same wide-set mouth that hinted at humour lurking beneath the stern press of lips.  
  
“Granny! I—I wasn’t expecting you so soon,” the woman said, her accent distinctly Marcher. “What brings you here?”  
  
Tommie chuckled softly. “What dae ye think brought me here, lass?”  
  
“I thought I saw the others—are they not with you now?” The woman asked, and her smile widened as she saw Patentia’s curious gaze.  
  
Tommie nodded. “Dougal’s gone to seek a room, though we’ll most likely have to drag him oot ay some unfortunate’s bed come morning.”  
  
“I think we’re forgetting our manners, Granny,” she said, glancing between Patentia and Jase, and then back to her grandmother.  
  
“My apologies, lass,” Tommie said, chuckling softly. “Patentia, this is my granddaughter, Niamh. She’s a mage, and knows her business with the healing arts. She’s also the Herald of Andraste.”  
  
They’d all heard over the past few weeks about the Inquisition and its mission. Patentia reeled with the realisation of who she now saw call the old woman _granny_.

Beside her, Jase shifted his weight, clearly uncomfortable. She grabbed his hand, stilling his agitation with a light squeeze.

The isolation of their lives on the outskirts of Lothering had been for Jase’s sake. He couldn’t bear to live in cities with their walls and fortifications, for it reminded him too much of the time before—the time he had lived within the walls of an ancient elven fortress in the Brecilian Forest, as a young werewolf. Haven by contrast, was vibrant and bustling, merchants hawking dwarven weaponry direct from Orzammar, vendors hawking rabbit-and-leek pies and roasted haunches of august ram on a spit. The entire place was alive, scurrying, hurrying servants and strange looking elves and qunari with horns three handspans wide. Everywhere she looked, Chantry banners flew high overhead, flapping in the wind. They were newer banners than those she had seen on the journey to Haven; the tattered remnants of the Theirin coat of arms a paltry contrast to the Chantry sun emblazoned on these ones.  
  
The Marcher turned apologetically away from the crowd, and Patentia noticed for the first time the mark on her hand. Patentia dropped into a low curtsy, her head bowed, and eyes averted. Jase followed suit, bowing low before the Herald.  
  
“Please,” the Herald said softly, taking Patentia’s hand and lifting her to her feet. “You don’t have to pretend I’m some holy or royal person. I’m just a woman who happened to be in the wrong place…” Her voice trailed off, and Patentia caught the lift of her chin and the glint of determination that in her eyes.

Patentia looked between grandmother and granddaughter. At Jase’s discomfited grunt, the Herald noticed him.  
  
“I will find you lodgings and see that you’re settled comfortably,” Niamh said. “Unless you wish to pick your own?”  
  
“Thank you, milady Herald,” Patentia said. “Wherever you wish to lodge us will be fine.”  
  
The Herald of Andraste lifted her apron up over her head, and set it down on the chair. She turned and reached for a fine silk scarf shot through with dusky pinks and shimmering cerulean, wrapping it around her nose and mouth. Patentia’s eyebrows rose as the Herald tied the scarf in a knot, and moved to the door.  
  
“Follow me,” she said, and led them down the steps they’d traversed. They passed cookfires and weapons sellers, the blacksmith’s forge alive with steel ringing against steel. Mabaris barked in the distance, and the sound of birds overhead with their harsh cries created a cacophony of sound. The Herald led them unerringly through the streets, pausing now and again as people greeted her effusively, their warmth apparent in their smiles.  
  
Patentia watched as the Herald stopped to ask an older woman if her cough had cleared yet, and saw the old woman’s gummy smile as she nodded. The kindness of the Herald had been unexpected, especially seeing as the woman elicited the faintest shimmer of magic, like Patentia had seen from Jase. She laced her fingers through Jase’s, and smiled up at him, pretending that things were fine. As the Herald led them again through the streets, people drew closer, calling out to her with warmth and admiration in their voices. At last she drew up to a door, and opened it.  
  
“I was given this house to be my quarters, but you have far more need of it than I do,” she said, sweeping her arms in a wide, welcoming gesture.  
  
The quarters were, by any standard, well-appointed and comfortable. The bed looked sumptuous, with a rich green embroidered coverlet and mounds of pillows. The house seemed sturdy and well-kept, the roof solid and best of all, a fire blazed in the hearth. It felt like luxury to Patentia, and she opened her mouth to protest, but the Herald held up her hand, forestalling her protestations.  
  
“I rarely spend my nights here. And you need to be settled,” the Herald said. “Especially with the babe in your womb.”  
  
“I can’t accept this,” Patentia said, but the Herald laughed softly. “It’s too grand for me.”

“You can, and you will,” she replied softly. “As a favour to me.”  
  
There was something in Niamh’s tone that made Patentia see the will of dragonbone beneath her kindness. So, she nodded, grateful.  
  
“If you insist,” Patentia said, feeling her eyes tearing up from the utter kindness displayed to her. “It’s more than I’ve ever had, so thank you, milady.” Patentia said, as the tears flowed down her cheeks in gratitude.  
  
The Herald left them there, in quiet contemplation. In the morning, Patentia would see what she could do to repay the kindness of the woman who had given up her hut. Perhaps joining the fledgling Inquisition would be the safest option—no more running and hiding from rogue templars, no more fleeing. They could be safe, well-fed, without the need for her to look over her shoulder constantly, to fight the clawing fear that Jase would be taken again—she hoped never to have to break him out of another templar stronghold. No more cold dread, waiting for the sound of heavy templar boots trudging up the pathway to where their house was.

She pushed her hair off her face with her arm, and turned to her agitated husband. Gently, she took his hand and led him through to the bedroom. Slowly, she sat down on her bed, and Jase unbuckled her druffalo hide and fennec fur boots, kneeling down as he gently slid them from her feet. She hummed the opening lines of _Andraste’s Mabari_ , running her hand through her husband’s golden hair, untying the ribbon that kept it neatly in place. It seemed to soothe him when agitated, as well as the song she sang, her voice wobbly in places as she sang the old folk song of the loyal mabari and the Holy Prophet.

  
The Inquisition would protect and shelter them—at least Patentia hoped so. If not, they had nowhere else to go.


	7. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Seven - Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thanks goes to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbex) for betaing this chapter. :D
> 
> This was one of my favourite chapters to write, for reasons that will become apparent at the end of it.

 

 

 

 

 

“Keep your shield up!” Cullen grunted, as a recruit dropped his defences long enough for Cullen to have the blade of his practice sword at the young man’s neck. “If that were a real attack, I’d’ve sliced through your neck, and you’d be walking around with a severed head.” He dropped the blade from the recruit’s neck, and dismissed him. He reached for the waterskin on his belt, uncorked it, and drank thirstily. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the formidable old woman known as Tommie, and sighed inwardly.  
  
“Care to spar, lad?” she asked him, her hand at her sword. “It’ll help take your mind off whatever it is that’s plaguing you.”

Cullen was hesitant to spar with the Herald’s grandmother—a hero of Ferelden. He looked at her, his eyes sweeping over her posture, noticing the blade belted at her waist, and sighed again. He’d heard of Tommie, long ago, as a boy. She’d been one of the legendary heroes who had aided King Maric and Loghain Mac Tir in putting the boot into the Orlesians during Maric’s Rebellion. Formidable, indomitable—an impressive woman. One didn’t often get the chance to spar with a living legend.

“Very well, but I’ll pull no punches,” he warned her, as he lifted his practice sword once more.

Tommie grinned at him. “I wisnae expecting you tae do any less,” she said, settling into her stance, her body fluid and limber. “I’ve been fighting since before you were ever a twinkle in yer faither’s ee’. I fought alongside Queen Moria, and later King Maric and with men long dead. All fine swordsmen.”

She lunged with the grace of a much younger woman, her moves sure and swift. Cullen met her blade with his, and she knocked it from his hand. He scowled, and picked it up again, his shield lifting as she moved in for the kill. He grunted, feinted, and parried her blow this time. She ducked as the blade swung out in a controlled, wide arc and jabbed him swiftly in the ribs.

“How do you think the meeting with the Chantry is going?” he enquired, panting as they continued their dance, blades clanging and bouncing off shields. Cullen danced back out of the reach of her sword, his shield angled downwards.

“How do you think it’s going, lad? The fools won’t listen tae her, and I’ve heard the charges levelled against her. Heresy, blood magic—they’ll try tae chain her like they’ve done so many others. They’ll even resort tae their favourite threat: tranquillity. Damned fools don’t know their arse from their elbow, and I know of those who are plotting against her. You’d be wise to keep her safe, laddie,” Tommie said, pushing her shield against him, effectively breaking his hold.

Cullen sighed. He knew Tommie had a point, reluctant though he was to concede it. “I have seen enough mages made Tranquil, enough failed Harrowings to know the dangers she faces in Val Royeaux. I worry for her, but I’m needed here.”

“Ye should’ve gone with her tae Orlais.” She stared fiercely at Cullen, assessing him.

Tommie was relentless. She brought her sword swinging in a swooping arc that he parried. “She puts on a show, but my granddaughter is terrified of making the wrong choices—she fears the threat from the Chantry more than she fears this Breach.”

“How do you know that?” Cullen countered, bringing his sword up to meet her blow. “She’s not voiced these fears to me.”

“You’re a Templar, Cullen Rutherford. Why should she voice those fears tae you?” She moved again, fast and quick on her feet.

“Former Templar, milady, but I understand,” Cullen said. It hurt, knowing that she still saw him as just another Templar, to be feared and scorned. She had not said anything, but he could understand her reticence and reluctance, the fear of Templars omnipresent in her mind. He had hoped she would look past that, look past his myriad transgressions as a Templar, the crimes he had unwittingly perpetrated against mages. For he had seen, and done nothing as Meredith’s vise squeezed the mages in Kirkwall to desperation. He had been complicit, complacent in thinking Meredith did what she did for the greater good, not realising until it was too late that he had followed a madwoman. He’d come to despise the term for the greater good, as it covered up so many injustices— the lies that let people sleep at night.

It didn’t hurt his pride to be bested by a legend—he had expected such a thing.

  
-•-•-

 

“They’re coming, Commander!” A scout shouted from atop the lookout, her face turned to the wind. She pointed at dark shapes moving steadily in their direction, and Cullen raced to the gates, like a boy eagerly anticipating the return of his father. Except it wasn’t his father he looked for in the crowd this time. He looked for a flash of hair like burnished copper when the sun hit it just right, and a face half concealed in a scarf. The woman he looked for was the Herald, and he knew it was foolish to half hope that she had missed him. He’d missed her fiercely, and their nightly ritual of sitting down and talking through the day’s events.

It had surprised him that he’d missed her. He supposed their growing friendship meant that she trusted him, on some matters, but her grandmother’s warning gnawed at him. Templars and mages could be friends—couldn’t they? All his training told him that friendship between mage and templar was impossible, and yet in Ferelden before Uldred’s failed uprising, Knight-Commander Greagoir and First Enchanter Irving had been friends. It made him think that somehow, their growing closeness and friendship could work, that they even had a chance of trying to find some normalcy in their work.

Niamh was a mage, and he was a templar.  
  
They could never be anything more than that—or could they? Magic exists to serve man, and never to rule over him was always in the back of his mind, taunting him with the silent affirmation that mages were dangerous, that to care for a mage was to invite the Maker’s fiery wrath. He’d had Hazel used against him in the Ferelden Circle, and in Kirkwall he’d fallen yet again for someone who he could never have. She had been different in every way from Hazel. Bethany Hawke had brightened his days while in the Gallows, always with a sweet smile for him, her sunny demeanour and irreverent sense of humour a welcome balm. Both of those women had represented the best of mages— but he had not been able to separate the person from the dangerous mages they were. Uldred’s uprising still haunted him— the death, the senseless torture, the mages turned into abominations to fuel a madman’s power.

Then he saw Niamh astride her horse, her face grey with exhaustion. His heart clenched, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Two new people accompanied her—both looked strangely out of place in the Herald’s convoy. One he vaguely recognised as Madame de Fer, the other, an elf. They sat astride their horses, Madame de Fer regal and serene, the elf reminding him of a cornered alley cat. Harry, Cassandra, and Cathal brought up the rear, and Cullen realised how much the Trevelyans looked alike.

“Get her off that horse!” Tommie came to stand next to Cullen as they watched the party arrive at the town gates. Cullen nodded, and hurried forwards, heedless of any bystanders as he caught at the reins.

Cathal slid easily down from his horse, and grabbed the reins of Niamh’s horse, freeing Cullen to help the exhausted Herald off hers. She swayed in the saddle as Cullen reached for her hand, and practically tumbled into his arms. He caught her, and Cathal gave him a tight nod. Harry scowled, but said nothing.

“Get her out of here. She’s exhausted, and she won’t say it, but she shouldn’t have ridden this far today. She wanted to get home by nightfall, and pushed us on.” Cathal’s tone was terse, protective. Cullen nodded.

“Come on, Niamh,” he whispered to her as they made their way through the crowd. “Just a few more steps, and you’ll be home.”

She nodded, and pulled her scarf down from around her nose and mouth, coughing. He wasn’t sure whether to rub her back—it didn’t seem proper. He shielded her as he led her through the village, towards the healer’s huts where she slept most nights. He was careful to avoid the stables as they made their way past siege equipment, past merchants hawking their wares. Solas met them at the top of the stairs, and ushered them inside his hut, wordlessly.

He set her down at the scarred wooden table. She needed food and rest.

“Can someone send for a hot meal from Flissa?” he bellowed out the door, and a woman came running. He vaguely remembered her name—Pat-something—she was the one with the Tranquil husband.

“Yes Commander,” Patentia said, as she hurried off to the tavern. She returned five minutes later with a steaming bowl of stew, and freshly-baked bread, a mug of ale and another of hot spiced wine. She set it down on the table, and bowed awkwardly as she left them alone.

Neither spoke as Niamh took a few sips of the hot spiced wine, set it down, and picked up her spoon. They were silent for a while, Cullen drinking his dark, bitter ale and thinking on what Tommie had said earlier. He held the comfortable silence, watching as Niamh slowly revived, her colour looking better with each spoonful of stew.

“Your grandmother insisted on sparring with me earlier,” Cullen said, once she had revived enough to talk.

“Oh no, please tell me you didn’t…” Niamh’s face was a picture of horrified dismay. “Did she give you a speech about how she’s been holding a sword longer than you’ve been alive?” She dipped her bread into the remnants of the stew.

Cullen chuckled. “It’s not a unique speech then? I’m disappointed.”

Niamh closed her eyes. “She’s given that speech to all of us over the years. Or variations on it.”

“Who are the two new people who’ve joined the cause?” he asked, no longer able to contain his curiosity.

“Madame de Fer, First Enchanter Vivienne of Wycombe, personal enchanter and advisor to her Imperial Majesty Celene, and Sera, a member of the Red Jennies,” Niamh replied, cradling her cup of wine between her hands, and he could tell she savoured the warmth. “But the meeting in Val Royeaux was a fracas. Lord Seeker Lambert recalled the Templars after punching a revered mother. It got ugly.” She closed her eyes again.

“I won’t press you for details—you’re clearly exhausted,” Cullen made his voice gentle, and stood. She needed to rest, and he would let her do so. “You can tell me in the morning, if you want to.”

Another girl came with a blanket, and Cullen took it from her, with a muttered thanks. He returned to where Niamh sat still, her hands still cradling her cup of wine as though savouring the warmth. “I’m needed in the healing hut,” she tried to say, but Cullen draped the blanket around her shoulders.

“Not tonight,” Cullen said. “Tonight, you’re going to sleep. And in the morning, we can talk some more about what happened in Val Royeaux.”

She clutched the blanket around her shoulders, and sipped her wine slowly. They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds the sloshing of ale in his tankard and the crackling of the fire in the hearth. Outside, an owl hooted in the gathering dusk, and the noise of villagers making their merry way to the tavern were the sounds they heard. Snatches of song and the chiming of the chantry bells signalling the hour could also be heard as they sat there in silence.

“The night is long, and the path is dark…” a worker warbled outside Solas’s hut, Cullen and Niamh joining in softly.

He could vaguely recall a time when he had felt this certainty in his life. He had been the good, loyal soldier, giving mind and body to the Order. But the Order had been tainted; the failures in Kirkwall still haunted him as he thought back to those days. He had stopped taking lyrium, and he missed the promise of oblivion and invincibility that it gave him, that certainty that he could just take another dose, and know that the darkness would go away—just for a little while.

He watched the shadows on Niamh’s face, saw the hollows under her eyes, and worried for her. She did not sleep—he knew that just as he knew the dawn would come and chase the demons from his dreams. She did not sleep, for fear of awakening to find the world changed once more. Or so he suspected.

Cullen admired her dedication, her steadfast resolve and commitment to the cause. He had met people as driven as her, but few remained as principled as their power grew. Hawke had tried to keep Kirkwall from crumbling into civil war, but she had failed, and in those final moments when he’d ordered Knight-Commander Meredith to stand down, she had not stood down. Instead, he had watched, powerless as Hawke took on the First Enchanter—who had resorted to what all mages resorted to—and then the Knight-Commander. The fury and rage he’d felt towards Hawke, towards Meredith, towards himself had made him sick. The Gallows had been the end of the road for him, the final and ugly place of confrontation—the ugly truth of being a templar, the ugly truth of mages and what desperation drove them to. Hawke had remained in Kirkwall in the days following Meredith’s death, but had remained, determined to help. He had not let her help him, and Hawke had later fled the city, into the arms of Prince Sebastian Vael.

He would not allow the situation to get that bad ever again. Cassandra had found him, weeks later, in a filthy tavern in Darktown, trying to buy lyrium. He would be forever grateful to the Seeker, when she had recruited him, he had been on the point of utter despair, and she had given him the boot up the backside that had helped. She had not been gentle, she had not been pitying or condescending. She had known, even then that he lacked a purpose after his life had gone to the dogs.

Shaking himself from those thoughts, he now looked towards Niamh as she tried once more to stand on shaky legs. He got up, and made his way over to her, offering his arm to guide her to her bed for the night. Solas wouldn’t mind giving up his bed, not when there was little other accommodation now that Niamh had given her hut to Patentia and her Tranquil husband. He pulled the covers down, and turned his back, giving her privacy to remove her dusty garments, and when she stood in her chemise and drawers, Cullen averted his eyes. He heard the rustle of the sheets as she climbed into the unfamiliar bed, and drew the covers up.

“Cullen?” her voice soft and hesitant, he looked at her. “Thank you.”

He rubbed his neck in a nervous gesture. “Sleep well, Niamh,” he said. He watched as she settled down, and took the candle with him as he pulled the partition curtains closed. He placed the candle on the table, and picked up Niamh’s half-eaten bowl of stew. Cullen returned bowl and cups to the tavern, and then found himself outside the hut where she slept. Or at least, he hoped she did. He realised belatedly that a hot bath would’ve been a welcome reprieve from the dust of the road, but he didn’t want to disturb her rest for that.

He would seek his bed soon, but for now, he sat on the steps that led to her favourite haunt, and glanced up at the stars, seeking advice. It frustrated him when he had seen her saddle a horse and leave Haven—he had wanted to follow her to Val Royeaux, to make sure she was safe.

One of Niamh’s brothers found him on the steps, and sat next to him, and the two men sat in silence a while before either of them spoke.

“It was bad in Val Royeaux,” Cathal began, as Cullen stared up at the waxing moon. “She won’t tell you how bad it got, but I feared for her.”

Cullen nodded. “I take it you reported directly to Sister Nightingale?” he asked.

Cathal shook his head. “No, not yet. My report is yet to be written. But, I’m troubled by what I saw there. The templars were out of control, and Lord Seeker Lambert punched a Chantry sister in the face. We acted quickly, to get my sister to safety. She was unhurt in the fray, but she was badly shaken.” His voice took on the qualities of a soldier used to reporting events of the day, and Cullen saw the anger barely contained in his eyes. “The Lord Seeker recalled the Templars to Caer Oswin, and the Grand Enchanter invited us to meet with her rebel mages at Redcliffe. You could tell Niamh was torn between her loyalties to the Circle and her unwavering dedication to her new cause as Herald. And then a messenger came with an invitation to a soiree.”

Cullen nodded as Cathal spoke, his respect for Niamh’s brother growing as Cathal reported, direct and truthful, like any good soldier ordered to report. He left nothing out—no detail too small or insignificant. The moon had risen by the time Cathal finished his report. They sat there on the steps in silence as the stars blinked to life in the sky, and light spilled from windows, warm and welcoming. They were both soldiers, both had lived lives of austere quarters and irrational superiors, of forced marches through rugged, brutal terrain.

“I don’t know that Harry helped much,” Cathal said, as he shook his head. “I had difficulty restraining the lad when he wanted to punch the Lord Seeker in the face. To be fair, I also entertained the thought briefly. But Harry is still young, and impulsive. He’s the making of a fine soldier, if he’ll stop banging on about his bloody livestock.” An affectionate chuckle, and Cathal went silent again.

“I hear Dennet yelling at Harry at least twice a day,” Cullen said. “He’s eager to help, but he has the same finesse as Cassandra at a party.”

Cathal nodded. “That’s Harry. He’s a great kid, he just…”

“Needs to be firmly redirected elsewhere,” Cullen put in, as Cathal chuckled again.

“Something like that. But to be fair, Niamh was the one who nurtured him when his own family turned against him. Carl is…. Not nice,” Cathal explained.

It didn’t surprise him, if he were truly honest with himself. Another example of Niamh doing what she did best, without expecting rewards for her labour. It made him admire her even more; her selfless dedication to those she cared about. He knew she spread herself thin—closing rifts, retrieving lost tokens of fidelity, appeasing spirits in lakes. He knew the hours she spent in the healer’s huts, nursing the frail and infirm—those too weak to leave Haven after the explosion at the Temple. She truly asked for nothing in return, and it made Cullen pause.

“I sparred with your grandmother earlier today. According to Niamh, her speech about her having held a blade long before I was born isn’t new,” Cullen remarked, and Cathal chuckled.

“She gave you that line, too?” he said knowingly, and Cullen was reminded of Niamh’s knowing expression.

“I take it she gives every sparring partner that speech? Or is it reserved only for those who she thinks meet her approval?” Cullen asked, a frown again crossing his features.

“Oh, be honoured if Granny deigns to spar with you. She doesn’t extend the offer to many,” Cathal said, chuckling. “She always says the best measure of someone can be found on the battlefield.”

Cathal pointed in the distance, where children played. Cullen’s eyes followed Cathal’s pointing, and saw them, wishing fleetingly that he too, had no burdens but the simple joy of childhood. It reminded Cullen of the good that was almost swallowed up by the ruthlessness of war, and for a moment, he wished he were back in Honnleath, sitting at his grandfather’s side, as he weaved the fishing net back together with skilled hands.

It reminded him of what could be lost, if the Breach was not sealed.

But he had things to do, things that could not wait. He saw the physical toll the burden of responsibilities that Niamh took on herself. He had to speak to Leliana, and Cassandra. It was ridiculous. They sent her off to do menial tasks better suited to teams of scouts, and he knew it to be only a matter of time before they sent her to her death at the rate they were going. Cullen stood.

“Excuse me, I must have a word with our spymaster and the Seeker,” he said courteously.

Storming towards Cassandra’s tent, he didn’t care who saw the look on his face. They needed to realise why Niamh came back from missions grey-faced and bone weary. One day, their reckless burning of the Herald’s energy would result in capture, torture, and death. One day, the horse would come back riderless, and it would be their fault.

“Seeker, we need to talk. Sister Nightingale, too.” His face must have betrayed the cold fury burning behind his eyes.

“All right, Cullen,” Cassandra said, as she followed him up the winding steps to the Chantry.

“You are both fucking _reckless_ ,” he ground out, trying to contain his fury. "You both plot and scheme, but you don't see the weight of all those decisions, those lives, on Niamh’s shoulders! She works herself till she falls down exhausted, night after night in the healing huts because she feels like that is the one place where she sees what she does _matters_! You send her on scouting missions, on missions better suited to those with the skills to do them. Until Fiona’s rebellion, she’d never had to kill another human being—and now you expect her to be fine with the weight of what she does on her shoulders? She is better suited to healing and teaching than on the front lines! What do you think you are playing at—both of you? Do you want to get her killed?”

He slammed his fist down on Leliana’s table, not caring who heard the bang. Leliana and Cassandra jumped as the pieces on their war map scattered. “I had to hear from Cathal Trevelyan about how badly Val Royeaux shook her. She should have had a contingent of soldiers with her, not just her brother, her cousin, and you, Cassandra. It cannot happen again—I will not allow it to happen again.”

“Cullen….” Cassandra reached to place her hand on his shoulder, and he shrugged it off, angry that she was trying to dismiss his point.

“No. You both listen to me. No more of this. No more. Either you start treating her like she’s the Herald of Andraste, or I will, Maker help me, take her far away from here, and then you will be without both of us. She is a good woman, who does _not_ deserve the disrespect you have shown her. If she is your prisoner, then let her know that—do not pretend that you care about her other than what her precious hand can do.”

He stared at both of them, daring them to touch him. His anger, slow to burn, had now reached its breaking point. Cullen would not allow them to treat Niamh this way—as though she were a tool to be discarded once she had served her purpose. He knew Leliana well enough to know that she would do that without hesitation, but he would not allow her to. He would never allow Leliana to use and discard Niamh. If that happened, he would take her, and run as far as they could go—north, south, it didn’t matter. He promised himself that.

 _You’d be wise to keep her safe, laddie._ Tommie Trevelyan’s words from earlier that day held a warning in them, he realised belatedly. Surely this wasn’t what she had meant, when she had said it, but he now understood what she said.

He only hoped he would be strong enough.


	8. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Eight- Elinor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which our Mortalitasi end up in Hargrave Keep, and are rescued by the Inquisition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to the amazing [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for the betaing and cheerleading, as well as to my faithful readers. <3 I hope you enjoy this chapter.

 

 

“For the love of Andraste, please _stop_ shouting!” Saun snapped at the unfortunate Inquisition scout. “I cannot help you if you don’t stop.”

Elinor shot him a glance that she hoped portrayed her frustrations “I’m pretty sure the shouting from pain as someone resets a dislocated joint is completely normal. Especially when said shoulder is badly dislocated.”

“Hold her still, please,” Saun said, his face relaxing into softer lines. Elinor nodded, and did as he asked.

“This is going to hurt, but you’re in good hands,” Elinor said soothingly.

Beside them, Esti bubbled with nervous energy. She held a ball of light in her hand, enough to see by. Elinor knew they’d made the right decision in bringing their assistant along with them—when Saun had been cold and imperious, Esti light hearted and bubbly. She’d been valuable in the field, often able to identify edible plants and augmenting their salt beef and root vegetable stews.

The journey had taken, as Elinor predicted, several weeks. The first week had been easy travelling, the roads good, and the weather clear. They’d stopped in taverns dotted along the Imperial Highway, sleeping in various rooms. The rooms had ranged from sumptuous to a cot in the corner, a thin blanket and even thinner pillow and mattress. Some nights, they’d huddled together, the three of them, shivering in the frigid room that they’d spent good money for. A fortnight later, they’d arrived in the Fallow Mire, to the stink of death and decay all around them.

The weather had turned sour, great gusts of icy wind and rain that fell incessantly. Though early spring, the winter still had its grip in the far south of Ferelden. The rain had initially been a blessing—parts of Nevarra and Orlais were bone dry, but as they progressed through the Mire, the howling gales and icy rain penetrated until Elinor swore she’d never be warm again. They’d lost their tent in the first week they’d been here—blown away by a gale.

Now here they were, dry and cold, but in the company of hostile Avvar and bewildered Inquisition forces. Trapped in a keep, and without any hope of rescue—or so she thought. She pulled her mind firmly away from the recounting of the circumstances thus far—she had a job to do, and she would damn well perform it. Right now, her job was focusing on helping this poor Inquisition scout through the worst of Saun’s scowling. He was a good mage, really.

Saun moved with brutal efficiency, swift and fast, he re-set the dislocated shoulder before the girl had a chance to cry out in pain. Elinor heard the joint pop back into place, and summoned up a cooling wind of healing magic to help ease any further pain. She looked up at Saun, and saw the barest flickering of thanks in his eyes.

“You’ve done well,” she praised the scout, her voice low and soothing.

Turning to Saun now, she put her hands on her hips, and glared up at him.

“That was absolutely unnecessary—she should’ve been seen to when we first discovered the problem, not when her screaming threatened to drive you mad!” She was a good foot shorter than him, and she hated that she had to look up when she tried to glare at him— it rather ruined the effect. “Andraste’s ass, Saun! You treat all of us as though we’re so far beneath your notice!”

“If she had asked me earlier, I would’ve set it for her, but she didn’t—she stubborned it out until it drove her mad with pain.”

She turned away from him, her shoulders shaking from annoyance. He could be a decent man when he chose to be, but right now, she could strangle him. “That’s beside the point, Saun Neroli,” she hissed. “The point is, we should’ve done it when we _noticed_ it.”

“It’s not our purview. We’re not members of the Inquisition, we have no affinity or affiliation with these people. Why should we help them?”

“Because we’re people. People do things like that.”

“You’re free to spend your time healing wounds that need healing, if you think that’s the best use of our time,” Saun said, settling himself against the wall in a position Elinor knew signified that he was feeling defensive, guilty.

“All I’m saying is, we could’ve prevented this pain from stretching on as long as we did.”

She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself, trying to get warm again. Even in the walls of this keep, the cold seeped in through the stone, a bone-penetrating chill. The wind howled through the draughty keep, the voice almost human some nights. She wished she’d never set foot in the Mire, wished she’d found somewhere else to study the putrefaction of dead bodies and how flies could be accurately used to predict time of death.

The work they’d done prior to their capture was sealed in scrolls. She’d managed to dissect a heart, and drew the chambers, sketching in full detail veins and arteries, and the inner chambers. It was not unlike the dragon heart she’d seen a drawing of once, but on a smaller scale.

  
-•-•-

 

Days dragged on, a slow leeching of sense and sanity. They cooked what little meals they could, and once, Elinor thought she heard shouting from outside the door of their prison, but nobody came. Time soon lost all meaning, the passage of the days and nights punctuated by what little food the Avvar deigned to throw their way. She kept herself occupied, sketching and writing down the findings she’d made prior to their capture. Her book soon filled with pages and pages of drawings, notes carefully penned.

Saun prowled the cell like a caged beast.

And then she heard it—the distinct ringing of steel against steel. Her heart leapt at the thought of battle—anything would be better than the monotony of her days.

Thunder drowned out the sound of battle. Loud and booming, it clapped and clattered, and the smell of burning as lightning struck a pile of straw (or what she assumed was straw—the smoke found its way under the door). The room filled with smoke, and they coughed, hopeful that the damn fool Avvar would let them out before they all died.

“I don’t want to die!” Esti coughed, and Elinor coughed too.

Then, as if by miracle, the door opened.

“Thank the Maker!” A scout hurried past Elinor and Esti, desperate to get out. She and Saun, Esti in tow, followed the scouts out into the frigid rain.

“Elinor!”

Elinor’s eyes searched the crowd of people until she saw the owner of the voice.

She wore a scarf over her nose and mouth, and leaned on her staff. Something crackled in the air, and Elinor looked to the woman’s right hand. A green glow not of this world shone from it. Behind her, a tall blonde man in a greatcoat and chain shirt

“Niamh!” Elinor bolted to her friend’s side, in a rush of gratitude. “Thank the Maker. I was beginning to worry we’d have to blast our way out of here after setting poor Henni’s shoulder to rights.”

“And Enchanter Neroli did a good job of it,” Henni said in her strong Fereldan accent. She beamed at Saun and then at Elinor, her mistrust of mages left somewhere along the way.

“Well, I’m here now. I fought through waves of undead, and an apostate named Widris was partially to blame for the undead according to his notes. Not pleasant at all, It reminds me of my cousin’s tales from the Blight and the Siege of Redcliffe.” Niamh squeezed Elinor’s hand, and pulled a face that told Elinor exactly what Niamh thought of it all.

“How are we all holding up?” Niamh asked, her voice bright and cheerful. “Campfire songs? Legends told around said campfire?”

Elinor chuckled softly. “It was all going swimmingly until the Avvar chieftain we’d been corresponding with was slain, and this lad took over. We had our specimens and everything, but he demanded to know what we were doing so far south. Bit of a fracas, really.”

“We slew that chieftain in battle,” the tall blonde man said, stepping into the light for the first time. He wore a greatcoat with a shaggy ruff that reminded Elinor of tales she’d heard of lions. He definitely looked like a lion, his golden hair illuminated in the torchlight. She dared a glance at Niamh, who stood looking up at the other with a soft, wistful smile on her face.

 _Interesting,_ Elinor thought.

“This is Commander Cullen,” Niamh said, somewhat belatedly, Elinor realised.

“It’s a pleasure, Commander,” Elinor said, watching her friend again, observing how nothing else seemed to matter to her except this tall, lanky man who spoke with a Fereldan accent tempered with something she couldn’t quite place. The way the Commander tucked Niamh’s cloak around her suggested to her that the feelings were mutual.

“…. What’s the delay?” Saun asked, impatient to be gone from the dank holding cell. Elinor knew him well enough to know when he was truly being an arse, and when he did it for show. This was not one of those times— he sniffed loudly, and Elinor watched as Niamh and her commander parted, observing the loving caresses.

“There’s no delay, Enchanter,” Niamh said, glancing once more at Cullen, who gave a minute tilt of his head that Elinor interpreted to mean he agreed.

“Then I would suggest we get underway. I may study the dead, but I’ve no desire to spend any more time in this dark, dank place where it rains constantly,” Saun said, again dashing cold water over the happy reunion.

“I suggest you not speak of your studies within earshot of the Chantry,” Niamh said in a low voice to Saun. “We do live within the shadow of the Temple of Sacred Ashes— your studies may very well draw the attention and ire of the few remaining Chantry officials.”

Elinor had to hide her smile. Instead, she turned to Esti, extending her hand to the younger enchanter, and the two of them linked their fingers as they followed Commander Cullen and the Herald of Andraste out of Hargrave Keep.

  
-•-•-

 

Lodgings were few and far between. They camped, the roads poor and flooded out entirely in places. Elinor sighed as she waded through a river swollen with the recent snowmelts. Wind howled, and hungry wolves prowled the countryside, but gradually they emerged out of the Mire.

“So, it would appear that your dashing Commander seems terribly fond of you,” Elinor said, her curiosity getting the better of her.

Niamh tilted her head to the side, fingers playing around the neckline of her warm coat. “It’s nothing.”

“It certainly _isn’t_ nothing,” Elinor said, her smile knowing.

“I’m sure Commander Cullen has his reasons for being out in the field with me, though he hasn’t made it known to me why he would want to risk the Fallow Mire. Oh, I’m glad Harry isn’t here,” Niamh said, and Elinor knew her friend was prevaricating. It had always been this way, she knew.

“Harry would probably go green in the gills,” Elinor agreed. She’d met Niamh’s cousin once, many years earlier when he had been a young boy of fourteen, and she had been with Niamh one summer in Ostwick, a long time ago.

“That he would,” Niamh agreed, as Cullen took that moment to hand her a cup of hot spiced wine from the cauldron simmering low over the campfire. She glanced up at him, her face a study in adoration, and Elinor saw the softness in Cullen’s answering smile.

 _Oh Maker,_ she thought. T _hese two…. There’s going to be so much they’ll have to overcome._

Cullen left the campfire circle, after patting Niamh’s shoulder with his gloved hand, and Elinor once again got the impression there was so much unsaid between the two. She watched as Niamh’s eyes followed Cullen to his tent, and then she looked into the fire, feeling as though she had interrupted something sacred and profound.

“So how goes your work on the study of human remains?” Niamh asked Elinor, changing the subject.

“I managed to draw the chambers of the heart this past week,” Elinor replied, drawing her knees up, resting her chin as she wrapped her arms around her legs. “I was able to see the way it pumps, and I still don’t know enough about the human body yet… but it was fascinating.”

“It sounds fascinating,” Niamh said. “Anything to better understand how our bodies function, how to heal them.”

Elinor nodded. “I knew there was a reason I liked you, Enchanter.”

Niamh chuckled softly. “I knew there was a reason I liked you too.”

Elinor reached around behind her, to where the sealed cylinders were kept close to hand. She briefly considered opening it and showing Niamh the drawings she’d done. But what she studied was censured and censored by the Chantry. Her forbidden knowledge—hard-won knowledge, must be kept secret. The Chantry was an outdated, outmoded institution. It had no place in these times—though she had faith in the Maker, she did not need a building in which to worship Him. He could be found in the way sinew held muscle and bone together, the beating of the wings of a bird. He could be found in a million different creations, each one just as beautiful as the other--- even darkspawn, corrupted though they were, had a savagery to them that fascinated Elinor.

Saun emerged from the tent, a blanket clutched around his shoulders, and another in his hands as he came to stand by the fire. Elinor glanced at him, and gestured for him to sit. He settled himself down near Elinor, draping the spare blanket around her shoulders. Surprise must have shown on her face, because he smiled at her.

The trip from the Fallow Mire back to Haven progressed in fits and starts. Elinor saw the signs of spring coming through the muck, and the gradual grey green turning to blossom and birds singing. Larks and thrushes sang through the reeds, flitting about in the early sunshine as they crested the hill leading towards Haven. Ferelden, when not a boggy, marshy cesspit filled with corpses and hostile Avvar, was truly a beautiful country.

Niamh gripped Elinor’s hand excitedly, pointing to something on the distant horizon. “There’s our destination,” she said. “Haven. And beyond there was the Temple of Sacred Ashes, which I apparently blew up.” There was a hint of something tragic behind Niamh’s humour that Elinor detected.

“I thought the explosion levelled the temple?” Saun said from behind them, as Niamh and Elinor turned to face him.

“It did.” Niamh said simply.

“We require food and bed,” Saun’s voice had taken on the tone it did when he desperately needed sleep, and was running out of patience.

“And you shall have them, Enchanter. Just let us get into Haven village proper, and we’ll sort lodgings and food,” Niamh’s voice was patient and polite, and Elinor wondered how she managed the constant parade of people demanding her time and energy.

They moved through the large gates, up stone steps and through the hubbub. People came out of houses, eager for a sight of the Herald and her entourage. Cullen shielded Niamh from the crowd, Elinor observed, as though he were the only person capable of doing so. Saun looked at them, and Elinor saw the scowl on his face.

“Welcome to Haven,” Niamh said, leading them unerringly to a quiet hut on the village outskirts. “You should be able to continue your research in here, hopefully. There’s enough space for the three of you—”

Esti squealed. “No, I’m not sharing a house with them,” she said, backing away slowly.

“Fair enough, Esti,” Elinor said pleasantly. “We’ve had close quarters for weeks—we don’t need to share quarters now we’re in Haven.”

“We’ll find you lodgings elsewhere, then. Come on,” Niamh said, opening the door to their new lodgings.

A convoy of servants entered the hut, bearing the belongings they’d brought halfway across Thedas with them. She watched them put the largest travelling trunk in the second room, and set their other belongings on tables. Elinor nodded at Niamh in thanks, and the Herald departed.

Inside, Elinor moved swiftly to unpack their research, and began setting their hut up. She was truly grateful to be in Haven, with the space, privacy, and time they needed to collate their findings, and continuing research.

“Well, here we are,” Elinor said, and Saun dropped into a chair. Moments later, she joined him at the scrubbed, scarred oak table.

The door opened, and people entered carrying steaming bowls of stew.

 _Please let it be better than the stews we’ve had along the road_ , she thought. Servants placed the steaming bowls on the table, along with a loaf of fresh grainy bread.

“Thank the Maker Niamh arrived when she did,” Elinor said as they tucked into their stew. “This would’ve been a million times worse if we were still in the Mire. Now we have a place to study our samples and write our findings.”

“Indeed,” Saun said.

They sat in silence, eating their stew, and Elinor felt a rush of gratitude towards her friend. In the morning, she would see how she could assist her friend’s efforts.

“I want to help the Inquisition in any way I can,” Elinor said, as Saun scowled. “What? You can’t be sour that they helped rescue us from the hostile Avvar.”

“You’re right. I’m just not entirely certain what help we can give them— we’re death mages, not healers or exactly useful here,” Saun said, the usual acerbity in his voice.

“You might be an extremely useful person in helping the healers ease the passage between life and death for the dying,” Elinor pointed out. She was tired of always being the one to point out the benefits of Saun’s expertise, but she knew he wouldn’t look at things that way unless she pointed them out to him.

“All right,” Saun agreed, and Elinor smiled. “You’re right. We can provide essential services in that regard. I’m somewhat glad the Herald rescued us, though I wish it were warmer, and this cabin didn’t smell of wet dog. I will send Enchanter Trevelyan a note of profuse thanks in the morning.”

“It’s really the least you could do,” Elinor pointed out. “Alternatively, you could just find her and extend your thanks in person.”

“I’m right here,” Niamh pointed out, a wry smile on her face. “I accept your thanks, Enchanter Neroli.”

Elinor noticed the blush that spread from Saun’s cheeks to the back of his neck, and how he tried to hide it by suddenly feigning great fascination with the bowl of stew set before him.

 _Maybe he isn’t as great an arse as I first thought,_ Elinor thought, and picked up her spoon to dig into the stew.


	9. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Nine - Niamh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Heartbreak is about to come knocking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you as always to the amazing [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbex) for betaing this chapter. This is also one of my favourite chapters, for reasons that you will soon come to understand, and I've enjoyed writing every single minute of it.

 

 

Niamh caught the sword with her own, and turned the blade against her opponent. Cathal feinted, and parried, and the two of them locked swords once more. Fast and furious, they danced across the courtyard in front of the chantry, sure-footed and certain. She stared into her brother’s eyes and they broke apart once more. She ducked under Cathal’s swinging blade, jabbing him in the ribs with her sword as she did so. Oblivious to the crowd gathered around them, Niamh concentrated on besting her older brother. They were well-matched, though Cathal’s height gave him some advantage, Niamh was light-footed and quick on her feet. Cullen watched, and Niamh felt his eyes on her, following her every move.

“Put yer back into it, Cathal!” Tommie called out from the sidelines. “Yer makin’ it too easy fer her.”

“I am!” Cathal called back. “Putting my back into it, I mean!”

He lunged for Niamh and she dodged out of the way.

She loved the physicality of sparring. It helped quiet her mind when she focused on besting her opponent, and she loved the discipline it gave her. Since the start of the Mage Rebellion she had found herself grateful to Granny for insisting that all her grandchildren had best learn how to hold a sword. Niamh had spent every holiday, every family gathering, sparring with either her grandmother or her brothers, or cousins. She approached it single-mindedly, a dogged determination to excel at this task as well as her magical education.

_“Every woman needs tae know how to defend themselves—it disnae matter if it’s battle or no—people need tae learn.”_

“I believe the match is yours, Herald,” Cullen said, giving her a shy smile. “Well fought.”

Niamh smiled back at Cullen, face flushed from the exertion. She pushed errant strands of hair from her forehead, watching as Cullen rubbed the back of his neck. It was strangely endearing. The weight of the sword in her left hand reminded her that she needed to return it to the quartermaster.

“I thought for certain that Cathal would’ve gained the upper hand—he’s the swordsman, I’m the mage. Mages aren’t supposed to know how to use a blade,” Niamh said. Her chest still heaving, she reached for her waterskin, and uncorked it, downing a healthy swig. “Granny insisted that we all know how to defend ourselves—and both Mam and Da agreed.”

“Your granny is a scarily capable woman,” Cullen said. “Capable, shrewd…. Are there any more hidden talents you have?”

“Oh, Commander. You’re only just learning,” Niamh quipped. She lifted her waterskin again, taking another swig. “Care to spar?” Mischief crept into her voice, a quirk of her lips. “Or are you scared of getting your backside handed to you by a mage?”

Cullen chuckled nervously. “Something tells me that it would be rather humiliating to be bested by you. But, if you like, yes.”

She grinned. “Draw your sword, Commander. Don’t hold back.”

Her sword in her hand once again, she relaxed into the stance that felt most comfortable.

“The Herald and the Commander are sparring!” An excited voice boomed out over the gathering. Soon, a rather sizeable crowd had gathered, and Niamh glanced at Cullen once, nodding in silent understanding.

“The rules are as follows: the loser of this bout has to spend an hour in the healer’s huts, cleaning bedpans,” Granny’s voice was like a loud clarion call. “Not that there are many, but that can change.”

Niamh fought to keep the giggle in. “Ready?”

“Always.”

Cullen smiled. They turned, and walked five paces back, before they relaxed into their fighting stances.

Then the dance truly began. She had always known Cullen to be a good fighter, known the restraint that came with fifteen years of strict discipline—for she had learned the same discipline as a mage. She lunged, parried, blocked, her feet moving sure and steadily across the sparring ring. She twirled, ducking beneath his blade as she jabbed him with the pommel of her sword. They danced some more, oblivious to the people surrounding them, oblivious to everything except the moment they existed in. At one with her blade, the extension of her arm, she swooped out in a low arc, and Cullen moved swiftly to counter her. Steel rang against steel, the sound clear across the valley.

A horn sounded in the distance, which had the effect of drawing their sparring match to a close. The short blast signalled a rider on horseback, then another short blast indicated a second.

“That’s no how this ends,” Granny said. She narrowed her eyes as they broke apart, and Cullen gave a little awkward chuckle.

“How should it end, Granny?” Niamh asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Wi both of ye—-,” she broke off, and Niamh saw the exasperation in her voice and expression. “Nae mind.”

She wiped her face with the hem of her shirt, and placed her sword on a table nearby. Niamh sighed, grabbed her scarf, and hastened after Cullen as he strode forwards to meet the envoy. The well-oiled gates swung soundlessly open as the two riders arrived, and she frowned. The riders wore the livery of the duCasperges of Orlais.

“What is Helene duCasperge’s family doing here? They’re meant to be in Halamshiral. Unless Aunt Helene thinks Harry’s in danger and needs rescuing.” Niamh bit her lip, and extended a gloved hand outwards. She could at least be civil, until she learned what they wanted with her, and her cousin. “Someone please get Cathal, and Harry.”

“At once, milady,” a steward said, hurrying to obey her orders without question.

Her brother and her cousin arrived moments later, and Niamh saw Harry’s face fall as he saw the livery of the riders. She placed her hand on Harry’s shoulder, restraining him from anything rash. She saw the scowl on Cathal’s face, and the confusion on Cullen’s. Aunt Helene did not approve of Harry’s life—she would’ve seen him locked safely away in a Circle as a Templar.

“Oh no,” Harry said, moving to stand behind Niamh, as though she were all that was needed to shield him from his mother’s people.

“Steward Baptiste,” Niamh greeted the man who slid off his handsome black destrier. “What brings you to Haven?”

Niamh watched as Granny made her way over to them, her bearing regal, her steps slow. She seemed entirely oblivious to the chaos, her head held high, the short waves of her white hair bobbing in the wind, her handsome face a perfect study of serenity. But Niamh knew better than to be fooled by the serenity on Granny’s face. It usually spelled trouble.

“I asked him here,” Granny said. “We need allies, lass. The duCasperge family have offered help.”

“I’m pretty sure their offer of help comes with strings attached,” Niamh said under her breath, hoping Granny wouldn’t hear it. She schooled her face into careful neutrality, and squared her shoulders. “What about reaching out to your friends in Ferelden? I’m sure the Crown owes you a favour or a million...”

Granny appeared not to have heard Niamh’s second comment.

“We come for twofold reasons.” Steward Baptiste said. “The first is on Lady Helene’s orders—to ascertain that her youngest son is alive and well, and the second is to see this Inquisition and how it plans to close the Breach.”

Niamh groaned inwardly. Today had been set aside for a much needed rest. Even though the duCasperges were family, she had not planned on any meetings, any official business. It seemed as though fate was a capricious bitch, and delighted in ruining any time she had where she did not have to don the mantle of Herald of Andraste.

“Could someone please get Lady Montilyet?” Niamh asked. She felt the iron bands of a headache begin to snap around her temples, and she rubbed her forehead to try and alleviate some of the inevitable pain.

A page nodded, and began running in the direction of the chantry.

“Lass, let me handle this,” Granny said, as Niamh closed her eyes and fought back the wave of exhaustion that threatened to engulf her. “Helene and Baptiste are my problem, not yours, so don’t worry aboot it.”

“If you’re sure,” Niamh said hesitantly, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Granny made shooing motions with her hands, and Niamh took the hint.

Grateful that her grandmother would deal with pesky, persnickety relatives, she breathed a sigh of relief. She rolled her shoulders as she walked away. The hint of new life sprung up around her, the trees showing buds that would turn to blossoms in the later part of spring. Soon the snow would melt, and the roads would turn to mire and muck, almost impassable later.

Giving thanks to the Maker for delivering her from dealing with Harry’s family, Niamh moved swiftly through the village. Traversing the well-trodden path, her feet took her towards the chantry. The cry of a hawk above made Niamh look up. It swooped low and landed with a graceful fluttering of wings on a rooftop.

She pushed the heavy chantry door open. Candles illuminated the chantry, sunlight spilling from the stained glass windows and casting a rosy hue in the nave. Dust motes danced in the light, and the choristers were singing from the Canticle of Exaltations, their voices high and clear. She usually found peace in the words they sang, especially when they sang from the Canticle of Transfigurations. It brought her little peace now.

She continued up the nave, her head bowed in prayer. The walk towards the war room spent in contemplation and general quietness contrasted sharply with her earlier journey here. Her thoughts turned to the enormity of the task at hand once again, the feeling like she was drowning in the details which had to be examined and dealt with. They still had the mages to approach— she refused to talk to the Templars after their behaviour in the Val Royeaux marketplace, and yet she wondered just how willing the Grand Enchanter truly would be in her quest to close the Breach.

Despite the support of her grandmother, and the money she had poured into the Inquisition’s coffers in aid, Niamh wondered whether it would ever be enough— whether they truly had the choice in who best to approach the problem of hundreds of thousands of demons pouring from the sky. She shuddered as she remembered the censure from Revered Mother Hevara, of her denouncement of the Inquisition and its goal. Still badly shaken, she had resisted sleeping, for fear of the nightmares that haunted her when she closed her eyes. The only place she found any rest and shelter of a night was Cullen’s tent, in the mutual understanding that neither slept out of fear of what haunted their dreams.

“Are you all right, my dear?” Vivienne linked her arm in Niamh’s as she caught herself on the edge of a pew, dark spots dancing before her eyes. “You look like you haven’t slept for weeks.”

Niamh looked at Vivienne, at the kindness written in her serene face. “I’m fine,” she said softly.

“You are anything but fine, Niamh.” Vivienne said, drawing her into the shadows, away from whoever might’ve seen her stumble.

“I shouldn’t still be shaken by what happened in Val Royeaux. I should be stronger than this—”

“Darling, anyone with any ounce of sense in their head should be shaken by those vipers,” Vivienne said soothingly, her hand resting lightly on Niamh’s shoulder, as Niamh struggled not to let the doubt come creeping back in.

She doubted that Andraste herself would’ve entertained doubts about her holy mission, her purpose long ago in ancient Tevinter. Her eyes found the statue of Andraste, and she tried to focus on it as Vivienne rubbed her back lightly. She drew in a deep breath, closing her eyes as she tried to still her racing heart. She clawed at her throat, as though she were suffocating, the entire world narrowing to the statue of Andraste and her pyre. Her belly heaved as she tried to breathe deeply, but only gulped down shallow breaths, her mind trying to find anything but the statue to focus on. Bile rose in the back of her throat, and she swallowed It back down, hating how it burned her oesophagus. Ants were beneath her skin, scurrying across her muscles, making her draw her arms across her chest, leaning heavily on the pew. She fought the tears that blurred her vision, blinking rapidly as they started to roll down her cheeks.

“Here, drink this slowly.”

Niamh smelled the fresh scent of peppermint and a mug was pressed into her hands, her fingers folding around the mug as she let the warmth soak into her hands. She shivered as a blanket was draped around her shoulders, and she liked the weight of it. Closing her eyes, she inhaled the calming scent of peppermint, and the underlying smokiness from a campfire cauldron. She took a cautious sip, registering the ginger and the peppermint, and the faintest hint of honey.

“That should help, darling,” Vivienne soothed, her hand resting lightly on Niamh’s back. “Try and take a few deep breaths now.”

Niamh tried, but the iron bands that wrapped her chest refused to budge. She took another sip of tea, and it scalded her oesophagus as it went down, but she didn’t care. She tried to focus on the tea, the flavours of it, but her mind still raced a thousand miles a minute. She breathed in deeply, and the mark on her hand burned. The cup shattered on the floor as she cried out in pain, grabbing her left arm with her right, the shooting, stabbing pain working its way up her arm, to her shoulder. She closed her eyes against the pain, trying to breathe through the spasm of her left hand, but the mark made it impossible.

“Breathe,” Vivienne said from somewhere behind her.

She tried again to breathe, and found that somehow, this breath came easier than the ones before, slowly, deeply. The panic started to recede as she regained a small portion of her calm. The soothing touch of healing magic washed over her, and she glanced behind her at Vivienne, seeing the unruffled calm on her face.

“I’m sorry, I can’t do this,” Niamh said. “I can’t be what everyone wants me to be.”

“Yes you can,” Vivienne said gently. “I felt this way when I first arrived at court. It’s overwhelming and scary, and you’re new to this game. The first time I went to Halamshiral, I was much younger than you are now— but I remember feeling like I was a fish out of water.”

“It’s not a game— I have so many people relying on my ability to heal the sky… Would anyone care if I had died at the Conclave if not for the mark on my hand?” Niamh said, gulping down air once again.

“If you think of it as a game, it will help you get through it. Imagine that this is a giant game of chess the Maker is playing— you can choose to be a simple pawn, or you can choose to be the Queen. If you choose to be the Queen, you have more chance of surviving the Maker’s play than if you’re a pawn. The pawn simply does what is commanded, the Queen _is_ the commander.”

“You make it sound so simple,” Niamh said, wishing she had a cup of tea. “Could I please have another cup of tea?”

“It’s not simple, but it is manageable. We’ll break it down into smaller tasks,” Vivienne said. She waved over a passing serving girl, instructing her to bring the Herald another cup of tea.

A fresh cup of tea was brought, and Niamh wrapped both hands around the mug to steady herself. The warmth penetrated through her hands, soothing the pain of her mark. “I need to seal the Breach,” she mumbled.

“Well, we knew that much already,” Vivienne said. “But, break it down. You need to decide who you’re going to approach for help. I may be partial to asking the templars, but it’s not my decision. Let me get Josephine, and then we can have a proper conversation.”

Niamh nodded, her hands still wrapped tightly around the mug of tea. She took a few sips as Vivienne departed, breathing in the scent of the tea, and then took a deep, calming breath, her equilibrium returning with each sip, each deep breath. She needed information— what Helene duCasperge’s family wanted in exchange for helping the Inquisition, who else could be asked for support. The fact that Vivienne had deferred to her judgement sunk in slowly— that she _trusted_ Niamh to do what was best for the Inquisition on her own merit, not for the political game that had been started by Divine Justinia and the Champion of Kirkwall. She’d never had that before— not from the Circle, not from her family, not from anyone— the trust that the choice she would make would be respected, not run roughshod over.

Vivienne returned a few moments later with Josephine.

“Are you all right?” Josephine asked delicately. Niamh looked at her, the calm grey eyes and the serene, unruffled demeanour everything she wished she was in that moment.

“I’m getting there,” Niamh said, taking another sip of tea. “What did Aunt Helene want?”

“Would you believe me if I said she wanted to help out?” Josephine answered, glancing down at her clipboard.

“Not really. It’s not her style. She always has strings attached,” Niamh said with a sigh.

“As does your grandmother,” Vivienne pointed out. “I’ve known your grandmother for the better part of three decades, and she never does anything without expecting something in return. Whether that is the utter control over her family, or the expectation that she will be able to call in a favour at some unspecified date— she doesn’t do anything without that. She’s a shrewd woman, but you have every right to be angry with her for calling in Helene duCasperge without consulting you, or Lady Montilyet.”

Niamh looked at Vivienne, and then at Josephine, who nodded.

She had never considered that her grandmother had been playing the Game for so long— or rather, that she had outplayed her time and again. Her head warred with her heart, Vivienne’s words sinking in slowly. A part of her wished to deny the allegations that Vivienne had brought against Granny, but the rational, logical part of her knew that there was truth in what she said. Granny was always the mistress of half-truths, and Niamh hated never knowing the realities from the lies.

“I hadn’t considered that,” Niamh said softly, taking another sip of her tea, the warmth of it soothing and centering.

“Well, you need to. What if she had unwittingly interrupted my delicate dance with Orlesian families willing to come to the table to support us?” Josephine asked. “It could have been a disaster.”

“You’re right,” Niamh agreed. “However, trying to tell Tommie Trevelyan to not do something is akin to arguing with a rock. She doesn’t budge. Should I have a quiet word with her?”

Josephine shook her head. “No. She won’t listen if it comes from you. She’ll overrule you again. But,” Josephine paused. “There might be a way to subvert your grandmother’s attentions. Give her a job that will have her too busy to meddle in the affairs of what _**we** _ are trying to build here. It gets her out of the running of the Inquisition, and it allows her to be useful without her overriding your wishes. And maybe we need to start worrying less about Orlais, and more about Ferelden— we are on Fereldan land here. Ask her to return to her roots, so to speak.”

Niamh nodded, gulping another mouthful of tea. The dawning realisation that she had been passive in the decision making process didn’t sit well with her. She’d never found passivity something she could cope with. She’d been such a spectator where she should have exercised her voice, instead of letting Cullen yell at Cassandra and Leliana. “I want a bigger say in the running of the Inquisition— I think we need to approach the Queen of Ferelden for aid, and given that she’s my cousin, the letter could be best sent under my own seal rather than the official one. We don’t want to anger her— we risk exile if we anger the Ferelden crown.” Her mouth twisted in a wry smile.

“Add to the fact that the mages are ensconced in Redcliffe,” Vivienne added, and Niamh nodded.

“Exactly. We risk angering the crown by bypassing them in order to pool our resources. I wondered whether you were planning to leverage support from Ferelden with your cousin being the Queen of Ferelden.” Josephine said.

“So, I’ll send a letter. We need to look outside of Orlais for support, and I think Ferelden should be where we look. Let’s send out invitations to the Bannorn, and see who accepts it,” Niamh said, starting to feel a tiny bit calmer now she had a plan. Plans could always be altered, but at least now she had a small goal to work towards. A stone— but not a boulder— lifted off her chest.

“Oh, this is going to be exciting. I will start organising right away,” Josie said, and Niamh smiled at her enthusiasm.

  
-•-•-

A few hours later, Niamh made her way to her old hut, to check in with Patentia and Jase. She had been so busy that she hadn’t had the time to call in, and she wished to remedy it now. A basket of comfortable new clothes for both of them hung from Niamh’s right elbow, as well as soft slippers and warm cloaks. They’d had neither when they arrived in Haven, and Niamh wanted them to be well provisioned. Her basket contained a freshly brewed tincture of royal elfroot, said to be good for pregnant women—or at least according to the latest research out of Seheron.

She knocked on the door, expecting a rebuff. Instead, Jase opened the door on a homey, warm scene. The hearthfire blazed merrily, and Patentia sat knitting a set of booties out of soft wool. Niamh smiled behind her scarf, pulling it down as she entered the hut. Fat candles scented with crystal grace burned on the table in the middle of the room, their delicate scent slightly sweet and woody. She looked around the room once more, noting that Patentia had the knack of making the place look loved and inhabited—unlike how it had been when she’d used it herself. When she’d inhabited the place, she had only used it to sleep—and even then, that had been a rare occasion. She’d often slept in the healer’s cottage, on a thin mattress and a narrow cot.

“This looks wonderful,” Niamh said, sweeping her eyes around the room. “I come bearing gifts, too.” She held up her basket, and Patentia rose to meet her. Niamh looked at her, saw how heavy she was with child.

_Six months? Maybe more? I’m not sure, she thought. It can’t be easy with a Tranquil husband…. But I don’t know the whole story, and it’s not my place to ask. My place is to give her a safe haven, where she and Jase can be safe and cared for._

“Thank you,” Patentia said, taking the basket from Niamh.

“Are you settling in all right?” Niamh asked her, frowning as she saw Patentia wince.

“Yeah thanks, I am,” Patentia said. “I… where do you sleep now I have your hut?” The words came out in a rush, as though Patentia had wanted to ask her that for a while.

Niamh smiled at Patentia’s question. “I sleep in the healer’s huts,” she said honestly. “I don’t really sleep that much, so I’ve learned to survive on little sleep.”

“I remember those days,” Patentia said. “I was a healer—but I’m no mage.”

“How did you and your husband meet?” Niamh asked, curious as to how a tranquil mage and a lay healer met.

“It was after the Fifth Blight, and I was twenty. Crestwood had been flooded, and I left,” Patentia began, as Niamh took the seat in front of the fire next to her. Patentia picked up her knitting, and resumed. “Denerim in those days was a mess—the buildings were all rubble and piles of stones. I was a Red Jenny back then, too. One from Crestwood, but the Jennies weren’t as organised then—we just played stupid pranks on people.” Patentia tied on the new skein of wool and continued knitting.

“I heard from my cousins that the damage done to Ferelden was horrendous—given that Loghain Mac Tir didn’t believe it was a true Blight, just a large raid,” Niamh said. “Two of them were there for the siege of Denerim, and one said that she saw Warden Riordan fall to his death while puncturing a hole in the archdemon’s wings.”

“I wasn’t there for the siege, but from the tales I heard from people who were there, it was a good thing. It sounded really bad—worse than what happened in Crestwood.” Patentia bit her lip, and sighed. “I have suspicions about what really happened in the old village, but there’s no proof.”

“What happened?” Niamh asked, curious. “I was in a Circle tower, teaching apprentices during the Blight.”

“The darkspawn flooded the caves under Crestwood,” Patentia replied softly. “Or so we were told—but I dunno if I believed them, cause it sounded like a tall tale.”

Niamh nodded, and listened as Patentia told her about the Fifth Blight. She had known it’d started in the Korcari Wilds, but listening to someone who had been in Ferelden during the Blight was interesting. She’d known of the privations, everyone had—but Patentia had been there during the worst of it.

“And you were in Denerim? Granny mentioned as much,” Niamh said. “I have no idea how she manages to keep her eyes on so many people at once….”

“Your grandmother apparently knew all about my activities in Denerim,” Patentia agreed, a twist to her lips. “I found Jase there—in no fit state—he was covered from head to toe in grime, fleas, and general muck.” She pulled a face. “It was right disgusting, it was. And there were dead bodies left in the back alleys—like they didn’t even have the decency to burn ‘em. They stank, and the sea kept blowing in big gusts of rotting wind. All flyblown and just… eww.”

Niamh shuddered involuntarily at the mental image Patentia evoked. “You’d know Sera then, wouldn’t you?” she asked, remembering the elf who wasn’t particularly fond of being an elf.

“Short choppy hair, elfy girl? Yeah, I know her. She was Jenny in Denerim for a bit, before she buggered off to Val Royeaux to humble the big hats there,” Patentia grinned, and Niamh had the feeling that she would have to ask Sera about Patentia. Patentia sat back down, and took up her knitting once more.

She’d taken Sera with her to the Fallow Mire, along with Vivienne and Cathal. Cullen had insisted on coming, too, quietly complaining about the stinking cesspit the entire time. She would’ve brought Harry with her, but he had a fear of the undead so severe it caused him to lose his breakfast at the mere thought of wading through a marsh full of them.

“Yeah, that’s her,” Niamh confirmed. “Sent us hunting all over Val Royeaux for red scarves, then we found her in a dark back alley having stolen the guard’s breeches. My brother Cathal was thoroughly unimpressed by that. Even if seeing the _san-culottes_ was worth it.”

Patentia laughed. “That _does_ sound like her.”

“I’ve distracted you, sorry,” Niamh apologised, realising that Patentia hadn’t finished telling her story. But maybe the story could wait, because some tales needed to wait, until people were comfortable telling them.

“Nah, it’s all good, innit?” Patentia grinned. “You’re not like what I thought you’d be—I thought you were going to be some stuffy, priss of a thing.”

“Glad to know I’ve exceeded your expectations,” Niamh replied. “I know a few stuffy prisses—they’re not worth knowing.” She winked.

“But, getting back to how Jase and I met,” Patentia said, abruptly changing the subject back to Niamh’s original question. “We met when I walked down a stinky dirty alley in Denerim and found him. He was all skin and bones, needing food and medical attention. He became healthy, lively again— slow process. And then, just six weeks ago, he was taken by Templars, and made tranquil.”

Niamh reached out to touch Patentia on the shoulder, but the other woman shied away—not wanting sympathy. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice gentle. “Truly, I am. If there was a way to change it, I would do so.”

An awkward pause. Patentia’s fingers moved seemingly of their own volition, the knitting an automatic action. Niamh wondered whether Patentia realised that she would be looked after within the Inquisition, that she didn’t have to be alone. If there was anything Niamh could do for her, she would.

“We’re here for you. The Inquisition—myself especially, will make sure you’re looked after, that you and Jase have a roof over your heads for as long as you wish to have one,” Niamh said, her voice soft and compassionate. “Should you wish to leave, I’m sure Granny would give you both a place in her household.”

“Thank you, but I’m happy here, truly, I am,” Patentia said. “I don’t like leaving Jase alone, not after the Templars took him and made him tranquil.”

“How did they catch him?” Niamh asked, realising the answer could be too private.

“I wasn’t there. When I came back from healing someone in the next freehold, he was gone. I dunno who told ‘em he was a mage, but he was gone,” Patentia said, as Niamh heard the guilt and pain in the other’s voice. “I made the bastards pay, when I found him.”

“I’m sorry,” Niamh said, knowing the words were inadequate. She felt as though she had to apologise to this strong woman, who had endured much more than she had. The fear and terror that Patentia must’ve felt when she lost Jase to the Templars would never leave her. The Templars had to answer for their crimes—she would make them answer.

“It’s a bit hard,” Patentia said. “He was only just starting to accept being human again.”

“Human again?” Niamh’s brows furrowed in confusion. She looked at Patentia, and saw the flicker of doubt in the other’s eyes.

“I…” Patentia began, “It’s not a story I just blab out in five minutes. He wasn’t always human like you see him now— nor is his magic powerful enough to harm anyone. He had a few run-ins with elves and curses.”

  
  
-•-•-

 

“Cullen, I have an idea,” Niamh said, coming into his tent. Cullen glanced up at her, his smile warming her to the core.

She moved to stand beside him, and wrapped her arm around him, leaning against his solid chest. His arms came around her waist, holding her close. She felt warm and safe in his arms, comforted by his strength and presence. She closed her eyes as she breathed him in, the hint of cedar and lanolin in his shirt made her feel like she was home. His chin nestled on the top of her head, and for the moment, she could just be herself. She could pretend just for a little moment that she didn’t have the weight of the Inquisition settling on her shoulders.

“Yes?” Cullen said, and Niamh smiled.

“That tranquil mage with his pregnant wife—do you think you could find something for him to do? I think he’d be better if he had something to do, rather than just sitting around.”

Cullen chuckled, and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m pretty sure I can find him some tasks to perform.”

“That’d be great,” Niamh said. “I have a place for his wife Patentia—she can assist me in the healing huts. She has some skill as a healer, from what she told me. I figure giving Jase some purpose will help her just as much as it will help him.”

It surprised her how easily she could talk to Cullen. How easy it was to forget that he was a templar, who had overseen failed Harrowings, seen mages turned Tranquil if the First Enchanter felt as though they weren’t up to the standards of the Circle. Some of her best friends had been taken in the middle of the night—and never returned. They had been sent either to the mage prison, Aeonar, or made tranquil.

Her suffering, the suffering of mages throughout Thedas was the whole reason this Maker-damned war had begun. The silent disappearances of mages in Circles throughout Thedas, the utter powerlessness she had felt when friends disappeared. It began with lies— _o_ _h, they’re just doing something for one of the Senior Enchanters—they’ll be back later_ —and ended in outright murder. Or a fate far worse than death: for tranquility was a fate that cut them off from their feelings, from who they had been. They came back furniture capable of speech.  
  
Templars had wielded the threat of Tranquility time and again. In the first five hours she had spent as First Enchanter, she had seen the lists of those mages deemed unfit to undergo the Harrowing. They were to be made tranquil, and she could only argue for a stay of execution, a pointless exercise after that final day when the Circles were still intact. Friends had been on that list, people that had simply…. vanished during her time as a Circle mage. The lists had shocked her and still did shock her, whenever she thought about it. The slow, dawning and damning realisation that she had known how many mages had been quietly earmarked for tranquility, and she had no power to stop the templars from going ahead. Genocide in the name of the so-called greater good, a Chantry that sanctioned, knowingly, this abuse of power. The Templars had gone too far, too often.

She’d heard the stories of the Aeonar—where the disciples of Andraste had slaughtered the mages there. The restless demons that prowled the halls, never dying, never anything—no absolution, no rites performed to send their spirits back to the Fade, where they belonged. She wondered if Cullen knew the tales that had been told to young mages new to their power, frightening tales whispered between children at night. The threats made to impressionable young minds that if they failed in their magical instruction, they would be made tranquil, or be sent away to the bad place. The number of frightened young children that appeared in her quarters in the middle of the night after some fool decided telling horror stories was the best way to get them to behave, tales of abominations and demons that prowled the dark corners of the Fade had surprised her. But on reflection, she had heard those same tales herself, when she had been their age.

“Let’s just hope this baby she’s carrying doesn’t turn out to be a mage,” Cullen said. “We don’t need more mages in the world—we’ve got enough problems without adding more mages to the equation.”

She blinked, not sure she’d heard him correctly.

“What did you say?” she asked, her tone incredulous.

“I merely meant that we should watch this baby.” Cullen said.

“….I’m sorry? I don’t think I heard you correctly.” Niamh said softly.

“Mages aren’t people like you or I. They’re a dangerous mistake by the Maker. He threw them out of the Golden City for trying to find Him.”

“Like you or I?” she repeated incredulously. Her voice became colder and harder than ice. “How convenient that you’ve forgotten I am a mage, Cullen.”

He scowled. “You’re—”

“No. Don’t you dare say I’m _different_. If you’re going to say I’m _different_ , it’s not an excuse.” Niamh snapped at him. “For all your talk of wanting to make the Inquisition something to be proud of, you’re certainly quick to fall back on the Chantry’s oft-parroted lines about _magic exists to serve man, and must never rule over him_. If it wasn’t for my hand and healing this Maker-damned wound in the sky, I’d be just another dead mage that nobody cared about. Nobody would mourn my loss. You wouldn’t. Another dead mage, one less potential blood mage in this world— it’d be right good for you.”

“A life half-lived is no life at all,” she bit out through clenched teeth, trying not to let her anger and hurt show. “I don’t know about you, but we were threatened with Aeonar if we didn’t behave, and later Tranquility was used as the method to force us into submission—” She shook her head, trying to regain control over her anger and disappointment. “Never let a templar see a mage losing control—that is justification enough for us to be earmarked for Tranquility. The justification that the mage in question cannot be controlled. Never let a mage see their own child, either.”

“That’s not fair,” Cullen said. “Yes, there were abuses of power by the Templars, but what you’re talking about….” He shook his head.

“You were on the other side of the equation—you told me of that Harrowing you went to, where you would have been the one to strike the killing blow. Tell me, Cullen, do you still believe that what they did was right? That it was for the so-called greater good? I could’ve been that girl who you were chosen to kill if things got out of hand. The fact that she passed her Harrowing with flying colours doesn’t negate the awful truth of what it means to have that fear living in your mind. Tell me again how Tranquility offers a life.”

“I—” He faltered.

“I trusted you. Maybe that was a mistake.” Niamh’s voice had an edge to it—and he blanched. She gave him a tight, controlled smile that showed nothing of her true feelings.

She wanted to walk away from this argument, to pretend that things in the Circle had been a nirvana of sorts—the grand lie the Chantry told about how mages were evil, and how they could not be trusted with their powers. Had she expected too much of Cullen? Too much of the caring, charming man he could be when he wasn’t the Templar, or the Commander. Right now, he wore the cloak of the Templar, still seeing mages as dangerous, as people to be put down like an old dog past its use.

“No- wait!” Cullen said. “Please.” He swallowed hard, and Niamh saw his Adam’s apple bounce.

“What could you possibly say to make things better?” She felt the shimmering of her power emanating from her. “I know what lies the Chantry fed you—I was fed the same lies. But I’m trying to make a difference, to make the Inquisition something worthy of following and supporting. If you can’t see that—then,” she swallowed the lump in her throat. “Good night, Commander Rutherford.”

“Niamh—please, let me explain!” Cullen’s voice came out broken, as he reached for her hand.

She whirled around, and saw the pain in his eyes. It made her soften, almost. But he was a Templar first, and that was all he could be. “It’s _Lady Trevelyan_ to you.”


	10. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Ten - Patentia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for the excellent betaing and all the cheerleading. I love your help. Graphic depictions of medieval surgery are also in this chapter, so read on at your discretion.

 

 

Haven bustled with activity as Patentia moved up the stairs, carrying her box of herbs and salves. She’d been requested in the healing huts, apparently on the Herald’s orders. The Herald seemed to be a woman of her word, and had found work for both herself and Jase. He had been put to work serving Cullen in various matters—and she was grateful that Jase also had a purpose now, because he had seemed so apathetic before. At least here, in Haven, the fear of him being discovered as a mage was lessened, though she still didn’t trust the Templars who prowled the icy lake like mabari. If she’d had a mabari, maybe Jase wouldn’t be tranquil. The ironbark ring on her left hand caught the light and shimmered, a soft blue glow in the light.

When the baby was born, perhaps the time would be right for a mabari; the fierce, loyal dogs who would fight tooth and nail for those they’d imprinted on. If she’d had a mabari, perhaps Jase wouldn’t have been stolen from her. It truly frustrated her that the templars had come when she’d been off tending to a templar’s child who’d lain crushed under a wagon wheel. She wondered now if that had been a diversion, to take Jase forcibly when she’d had no choice but to go off to tend another. Guilt and shame tore at her as she remembered those circumstances— guilt, shame, and anger.

“Oi, Thistle!” Patentia turned at the sound of the Ferelden accented voice that called out to her. “Yeah, you. What’s with the belly, you?”

“Up the duff,” Patentia replied, a broad grin meeting Sera’s. “Married, too. And I no longer use that name.”

“What happened to _never will I be pregnant_ yeah?” Sera grinned back. “’Member those promises we made back in Denerim? After the Blight? When we were making stupid promises, yeah?”

“Yeah, I do,” Patentia said. “Things change, y’know?”

“Pish, no they don’t,” Sera scoffed. “Look at you, all fancy-like with your ring and your belly. You settled down.”

Patentia nodded. “I did,” she said simply. “Now, lemme pass so I can work.”

“No, you know we have to talk, you,” Sera insisted. “Not letting you pass till we have a proper talk like. At least catch up, yeah?”

“Not now, Sera. I really have to go, or the Herald will---” Sera cut her off with a loud, rude noise.

“The _Herald_?” Sera made a face. “Since when are you and the Herald bffs?”

“We’re not. She just…. Offered me her hut, and just why am I justifying myself to you?” Patentia replied testily. “Now, Sera, for the love of Andraste, grow up and let me pass.” She pushed past her former friend.

Sera and her mess of Red Jennies had once been the closest thing she’d had to family since the Blight. They’d get rip-roaring drunk at ten in the morning, in some seedy tavern close to the docks, and played stupid pranks on whoever struck them as being in need of humbling. They’d taken on the big burly fishmonger once, a man with arms the size of hams, and a black temper. On reflection, it was a source of wonder that he hadn’t strung them up on one of his fishhooks. A few years ago, perhaps Patentia would’ve gone with Sera into her confusing maze of pranks and the like, gladly following her friend into danger once again.

But Jase had changed everything for her.

He had forced her to see the world in a different light. In an entirely different way, he’d challenged her—first having been so weak and malnourished it was a wonder he hadn’t died, and nursing him back to health. She couldn’t bear to see a man starving and gaunt, riddled with filth and fleas. So, day by day, she had come to the seedy shack on the Denerim wharf, where whores conducted their business in a partitioned off section of the room, and the stale smell of vomit and piss competed with the rotting garbage on the docks, to check on him. The pelicans and gulls waddled on the slippery wood, where the sea met the shantytown in an unrelenting battle of waves against the seawall. She had come, day after day, with her red cloak and her basket of healing philtres, gradually blending into the very fabric of the shantytown.

It had been one such day, two months later, when she had found Jase.

  
-•-•-

 

_The sun shone hot and bright, the garbage a disgusting rotting stench that was never truly dissipated, even after dabbing a wintergreen and peppermint balm beneath her nose. It had been a summer morning, and the wharves had been as quiet as they could be. Sleepy sailors stumbling to ships—still smell and taste the salty tang of the sea in the air, and the spray from the ocean a fine mist against her face._

_Her feet led her to a dingier hovel than usual, at the far end of the wharf. She adjusted her basket in the crook of her right arm as she moved to rap at the wooden door. The door looked as though the wind blew right through it in bad weather, and she wondered just how this particular hovel had stood against the darkspawn and the howling winter. There were few sounds or signs of life, but her head healer had told her that there was someone here—she wasn’t easily deterred, so she pushed open the door._

_The stench of unwashed males and wet dogs met her nose after the scent of the sea and rotten garbage. The sack of rags that sat unwashed in the corner, and black specks that could only be fleas crawling all over it made her aware that someone was living here, barely there. The pile of rags moved imperceptibly, a skeletal hand scratching at something. Nobody should live like this, she thought, not anyone._

_She reached out to touch the man, but he shied away--- his intense blue eyes suddenly on her._

_“It’s all right,” she said, using a tone she used with nanny goats come their first kidding. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m just here to bring you some grub and a drink.”_

_“Leave—” the man’s voice was rusty, disused. She saw him struggle to stand, and knew he would tower over her if he could stand._

_“All right,” Patentia said, crouching down to pull out a new blanket. She contemplated the filth and grime that covered the surfaces of the small lean-to, and pursed her lips. “If I were to come back tomorrow, would that be okay?”_

_“Leave,” he said again._

_But she had gone back, day after day, to check on him. His name was Jase._

  
-•-•-

The day’s activity kept her busy, bandaging wounds and lancing abscesses. She wiped her hands on a towel, and turned to the next patient waiting for their turn to see a healer. Some had coughs, some sore throats. She could only hope that an outbreak of putrid throat wouldn’t erupt—she had seen enough men and women carried away by the disease. The other concern she had, with the sound of the wet, wracking coughs, was grippe. Both conditions were deadly, with high fevers and glazed eyes a tell-tale sign that someone suffered from either of those conditions.

“Open your legs for us, sweetheart, why don’t you?” A drunk Fereldan man rolled into the healing huts, his gait reminiscent of a man recently off a fishing vessel. “We could use a few whores.”

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” Adan said firmly but politely. “This isn’t a brothel—this is the healing huts.”

“Who do you think you are?” the drunk sneered, fumbling for his belt. “I want a woman!”

Patentia glared at him. “You don’t deserve a woman, you’re stonkered,” she said brusquely. She placed her hand over her belly, and touched the little sheath-knife she carried for chopping herbs. She drew the knife, ready for a fight.

“Naw, I’m not,” he retorted as Adan came to Patentia’s aid.  
  
“Get out of here,” Adan said brusquely, a shimmer of magic in the air around him. “Before I pound you into the ground.”

The shimmer of magic dissipated as the drunk decided he didn’t exactly fancy being pounded into the ground. Patentia blinked, uncertain of what she’d just witnessed. “You’re—a mage?”

“I have some minor talent for it, yes,” Adan said.

“Why hide it?”

“Have you seen the Templars on the frozen lake looking for maleficars, lass?” Adan retaliated. “A wise man keeps it hidden.”

“It explains your skill as a healer,” Patentia smiled. “My husband is a mage, but he doesn’t have the talent for healing that you do.”

“Your husband is the Tranquil, yes?” Adan confirmed, as Patentia nodded. “Forgive the curiosity, but isn’t that… _rare_?”

Patentia shook her head. “It’s not a story I tell,” she said softly. It hurt too much to talk about it, about how her beloved husband was taken from her—and she had rescued a shell of the man she loved. But she loved him still—and would continue to fight for him—for all Tranquil scattered throughout Thedas. She noticed as the Herald of Andraste entered the healing huts, and began scrubbing in.

“Maybe one day it won’t hurt as much,” Adan said gently, as they turned back to their work. Nothing further was said that day between them about Jase, or her baby.

It felt good to work alongside healers with talent. She spent the afternoon working beside the Herald of Andraste, assisting her in her work. The more she saw of the Herald, and her quiet, unassuming way with patients and healing, made Patentia’s opinion of the woman grow. Here was a mage who did what she could to ease the pain and suffering in the world.

“Could you please pass me the phial of embrium tincture?” Niamh asked, and Patentia handed it to her.

She watched as Niamh used a tiny spark of magic to warm the phial, so that it went down the gullet easier. The Herald of Andraste used her magic for the small cares—the little things that made life just that tiny bit kinder. A gentle smile, and a kind hand. Patentia had seen magic used in such a way before—and it didn’t frighten her. Not all magic was evil, or inherently bad, it just depended on the wielder of that magic. People were evil—people hurt others, and it was that which made mages feared. Not the kind hearth-and-hedge magic practised in these huts. She saw nothing in the way the Herald worked that could be denounced as heresy—instead, she saw the Chant of Light’s instruction that magic existed to serve man—and she saw the best possible interpretation of that line as she worked in the huts. To her, magic existed for better or for worse, and the war that had swept half of southern Thedas up had been over a boiling pot of water left alone too long.

Patentia wiped her hands on her apron, and went to the basin of aromatic rosemary and garlic water to wash her hands. She removed her apron next, hanging it up on the peg to be washed the next washing day. Tying the fresh apron around her pregnant belly, she felt the baby kick—he was active now, delivering a kick to her bladder that made her aware he was awake. Excusing herself to use the privy, she did so, returning a few minutes later and washed her hands in the basin once again. She dried her hands, resuming her work.

“Can you please help me hold her still?” Niamh asked as Patentia arrived next to her. She indicated the small wooden bowl and the belt knife.  
  
Nodding, Patentia put her arm across the patient’s shoulders, and watched as the mage used a new technique to lance an abscess. The woman beneath her arm squirmed in pain, but the disgusting green pus drained slowly away. Handing Niamh a fresh cloth from the pile, Patentia watched as the other wiped the incision down with something that smelled faintly of deathroot and vandal aria. The wound still came away green and bloodied—and took a long time to drain. When the last of the pus drained away, Patentia wiped down the incision again, and threaded a needle with catgut. She stitched the wound up, carefully as to not hurt the other.

“How’s the Commander? Is his shoulder still bothering him?” Adan asked Niamh, and Patentia watched the Herald wince.

“I wouldn’t know. You’d have to ask him yourself,” Niamh said through tight lips.

It seemed that both the Herald and the Commander were at odds. Niamh seemed more determined than ever to throw herself into her work, and slept in Solas’s hut, rather than going down into the training camps and doing whatever it was she did with the Commander. She noticed that Cullen stormed around in a black mood, pushing his troops harder than necessary, finding fault with everyone. He hadn’t smiled at anyone in days, or weeks. The gloomy mood had begun infecting everyone who came into contact with either the Herald or the Commander, and tempers had been short. She’d heard the mutterings of discontentment from the men who had been out in the Hinterlands with Commander Cullen on missions, taking down rebel templar strongholds and convincing them to join his cause. She’d learned to read between the lines, to know when the unsaid things were more significant than the things that were said, and it seemed that the Commander made his feelings plain in every manoeuvre he made with his troops. She’d noticed too, that Niamh seemed sadder, that the sheer weight of the task ahead of her aged her prematurely. The thin crow’s feet at the corners of Niamh’s eyes told the story of too much responsibility and little sleep. There were a few wisps of grey in her hair, too.

“Now, we will begin the distillation of elfroot and embrium,” Niamh’s voice was brusque, businesslike as she rolled her sleeves up and Patentia saw the dark circles beneath her eyes. It didn’t bode well that her shadows were deeper, and her attitude had changed.

“What happened with you and the Commander?” Patentia asked, before realising she hadn’t meant to voice that thought aloud.

“It’s not your concern,” Niamh said, voice tight, controlled.

“It is my concern when you’re walking around like a ghost of yourself, and Commander Cullen’s pushing the troops harder than he should, and bellowing at them for minor reasons,” Patentia said, remembering the grumblings around the tables in the Herald’s Rest. There had been many nights where the talk had turned to mutinous mumblings, soldiers complaining into their cups.

“It’s still none of your business what happened between us. It’s personal,” Niamh said, her voice still cold and tight. “Now can we please get on with the task at hand?”

Patentia crossed her arms over her chest. “Yeah, whatever bullshit you wanna spit out for everyone else is fine, but there’s gotta be a reason why everyone’s scared of Commander Cullen right now. And everyone’s wanting to know exactly why you’re no longer being fished out of his tent in the mornings.”

Niamh looked up at that. “People are talking?”

“Duh.”

“Why does it concern them?” Niamh asked, in a tight voice. “What happened between us isn’t their concern. It’s personal, and I don’t want to talk about it.”

“It concerns us because nothing’s been right for about eight or so weeks,” Patentia pointed out. “We’re not exactly blind here.”

Niamh looked at her, assessing. “We argued. It’s nothing to worry about.”

“Must’ve been a fierce row if you’re still not speaking,” Patentia said. “C’mon, _spill_.”

“Why does it _matter_? It doesn’t have anything to do with anyone. Can’t people just leave me and Cullen in peace, please?”

“It matters because it has affected everyone. Cullen walks around looking like a storm, and you look sad and tired and lonely. Just make up, whatever you rowed about can’t have been that monumental a thing,” Patentia said, meeting Niamh’s aquamarine eyes. The spark that had been there when Niamh had insisted that Patentia have her hut had not been seen in days.

“How has it affected everyone?” Niamh asked, bitingly. “I can’t see how it does.”

Patentia sighed, crossed her arms, and glared. “I’m not backing off. You might as well give up the ghost and just tell me what’s gone wrong. The men are talking about mutiny if whatever it is that’s got the both of you in such a state continues.”

She watched as Niamh let the words sink in. Despair seemed to make the Herald small and tiny, and utterly human. She saw how her shoulders began shaking as she put her hands over her face. Patentia wanted to gather her into her arms, and just let her cry it out, and so she put one arm around her shoulder, and together they moved out of the main part of the healing huts, into the partitioned off bit. She guided Niamh to an empty cot, and let her sit down. Patentia sat next to her, her arms around Niamh’s shoulders as the other started to sob. Quiet, heaving sobs wracked Niamh’s body, her thin shoulders rising and falling as Patentia said nothing, just rubbed her back in a soothing motion.

“I miss him,” Niamh said softly through her tears. “I just…. Everything’s a mess….”

“I know,” Patentia said, her voice just as soft as Niamh’s. “You can bloody well get through it, though. You’re a strong, capable woman who endured a lot. You’ll get through this. We’ll both get through this.” She continued rubbing Niamh’s back as the other cried.

“We had a huge fight, and I said some truly horrible things to him,” Niamh admitted. “I accused Cullen of just being another templar and seeing mages as nothing but trouble.”

In Patentia’s belly, her baby stirred. “And?” she prompted.

“He said he hoped your baby wasn’t a mage, and that’s what started the whole thing,” Niamh said miserably. “The entire fight was because he made an idiotic comment, and I responded with fear. I can’t trust him to be the man I thought he was, and not the Templar he still is. You can leave the life of a Templar, but you can’t leave the thinking and the training behind you. He’s still in that stage where he’s half-convinced that all mages are evil, but the other half of him wants to not believe that. I’m not even sure if I’m making sense…” She put her head in her hands, and sighed.

Patentia nodded, listening as the words came out in a rush. She had watched the two of them together prior to the misery that now clung to them like a wet garment. She had seen the way they looked at one another, with that half-amazed look that they had found each other. The fact that Cullen had yelled loud enough at Cassandra Pentaghast and Sister Nightingale for the entire world to hear it told her that he did care— and deeply. She’d heard the rumours after that event, that Cullen was sleeping with the Herald of Andraste, and that was why she spent so much time with him in the evening. Judging from how miserable Niamh seemed— there was every indication that there was something between them. She’d waited for Cullen to mistreat Jase, but he had seemed to be the honourable ex-Templar, treating him with nothing but kind indifference, but more like living furniture and not like a genuine person.

So many people looked askance at her in Haven when it came to her husband. They didn’t understand that the Tranquil were capable of thought and speech, that they were more than just living, breathing furniture who happened to be sentient. They treated the Tranquil like a tree, she had noticed over the past two and a half months she’d been in Haven.

But she needed to focus again on what the woman beside her needed most: a good shoulder to cry on. She would be that for Niamh, who seemed so alone and lost in her role as Herald of Andraste, so tired and thin, stretched too far, and close to snapping into pieces if she did not have someone to lean on. She had seen Ambassador Montilyet and Enchanter Vivienne with Niamh over the past few weeks, deep in conversation whenever they had stood clustered around a brazier in the chantry, but even then, Niamh had seemed a frail imitation of the force of nature Patentia had recognised in her the first time they’d met.

“What you need is a hot bath and a hot cup of wine,” Patentia said, finally dispensing some remedy for the woman beside her. “It’ll make you feel better, I can tell you from experience. I’m too much a beached creature right now, with the babe in my belly.”

“I haven’t had a hot bath since before the Conclave,” Niamh admitted. “I could really use one.” She gave Patentia a small half-smile as she mentioned the baby. “And you’re due any week now, right?”

Patentia gave Niamh a smile, a slow, lopsided grin that showed the gap between her front teeth. “Yeah. Little blighter’s due any day now,” she said. “I still don’t have names picked out yet— but I’ll figure it out. I think this one will probably name themselves when they come out.”

“I…” Niamh hesitated. “When I was…”

Patentia felt there was a story Niamh wanted to tell. “Whatever you want to tell me will remain private. I have no intention of spilling my guts about stuff that isn’t my story to tell,” she said gently.

“I wasn’t allowed to hold my baby,” Niamh whispered. “They told me she had died at birth. But, I swear I heard my child cry-- she’d been moving in my womb, growing. If she was dead, why would I have heard her cries?”

“They took your child?” Patentia blinked rapidly. She’d known that mages had children in Circles— she’d heard the templars bragging about their mages on the side being fat with child. She had never imagined the _Herald of Andraste_ was one of them. But she would reserve her judgement, regardless of her initial shock.

“Yes,” Niamh replied. “It wasn’t until I became First Enchanter that I knew my child had been a daughter, and that she’d been transferred somewhere. The documents didn’t tell me everything. But I remember my back labour was terrible, and that the pain was dreadful after I delivered both babe and afterbirth…” Niamh’s voice died away as she squinted at Patentia. “I don’t mean to scare you.”

Patentia shook her head. “You didn’t scare me. I’m a midwife— I have been at dozens of births,” she said dryly.

“They made me kneel on the cold stone floor of the Circle chapel, still bloodied and bleeding from the birth. The Revered Mother intoned how I was stupid for bringing another mage into the world, how I should’ve kept my legs together and not spread them for some random man. But he wasn’t a random man. He was Broni, and he was a cocky first mate aboard one of the Trevelyan trading ships.” Niamh continued, her voice taking on a bitter twist. “ _Mages should not lie with men, they should remain bloodless, barren, hidden._ That’s what she told me, and like an idiot, I believed her words. But what did they expect? That we use magic to make us barren?”

The story came out in a rush, and Patentia had the feeling that Niamh had wanted to talk about this for a very long time. Still she remained quiet, her mind adding up and subtracting the things that she knew about this woman, re-evaluating and recalculating. She admired the Herald of Andraste, but she knew that the woman behind the symbol was more important to her than the hero she saw others imagining Niamh to be. Instead, Patentia saw a woman at the end of her tether, in a situation so far beyond her experience and so out of her depth that she was drowning in the weight of it all.

“I’m prescribing you a sleeping tonic,” Patentia said, pursing her lips together. She held up her hand as Niamh’s mouth opened to object. “You need a night of unbroken sleep— well, let’s face it, you need way more than just a single night. But I’ll be satisfied with seeing you get some decent rest for once. A hot bath is also prescribed, and a warm meal. You are _**not** _ to do anything for a full forty eight hours. Otherwise, Herald of Andraste or not, I will flay you alive and not feel sorry about it.”

Niamh opened her mouth to protest.

“No. Do you want to have your judgement impaired in a crucial decision in the War Room? You can’t burn the candle at both ends and expect to remain focused on the goal ahead.” Patentia stood up, fixing Niamh with a stern look. “I’m getting someone to bring a tub and enough hot water for you to soak in uninterrupted. And if anyone interrupts, they’ll have **me** to answer to.”

She left the partitioned-off part of the hut, and waddled towards Adan. “Make sure the Herald doesn’t go anywhere. I’ll be back. I have to arrange some stuff for her,” she said, her voice low. The cranky apothecary nodded, as Patentia made her way slowly to the front door, and snagged a serving girl coming by.

“Bring me a tub, several buckets of water, and an infusion of rose oil mixed with embrium,” Patentia instructed. “Make sure the water is hot, and then send someone to Flissa to bring a hot meal for the Herald of Andraste.” She felt like she was over-stepping, but nobody else seemed to have made sure Niamh was sleeping and eating regular meals. She would make it part of her daily round— taking Niamh a hot meal and a cup of hot spiced wine, and ensuring that she bloody well _slept_.

If she had to physically tie Niamh to a bed, she would even do that.

 

  
-•-•-

 

“So, tell me something,” Varric said as he leaned casually against the doorjamb, watching Patentia making supper. “How did you and your husband get involved with all this?”

Patentia smiled at the dwarf. “Oh, you know… Meddling old ladies—evil Templars, the usual route.”

Varric chuckled. “Sounds like you’ve read some of my books,” he drawled.

“Is it that obvious?” Patentia laughed. She finished chopping the rabbit, and slid it into the pot. She stirred the stew as she spoke, and Varric came into the house more fully.

“Thorny, even the blindest of the blind could tell you’re a fan,” Varric continued. “You carry it around with you in your pocket, and read it whenever you can.”

“You’ve noticed that?” Patentia’s voice and face were a picture of mock horror. “I thought I was hiding it better.”

He grew serious for a moment, Patentia noticed.

“So, has our Herald mentioned why she and Curly are no longer talking? Why we’re no longer looking for her in the Commander’s tent in the mornings?” Varric sounded curious.

“Dunno. Might be they’ve had a blue. She’s quieter now, but angrier. And the Commander— well…. Even though Jase is being treated well enough, you can definitely see he’s making his troops lives a misery.” Patentia added a pinch of salt to the pot. She didn’t want to elaborate— it wasn’t her tale to tell, and she didn’t think Varric needed to know the full extent of the argument Niamh and the Commander had had.

“A blue? Never heard that expression for a big-fucking-fallout. Might have to borrow it for a book I’m working on,” Varric said. She could see the cogs turning in his head as he filed it away for future use.

In a way, Patentia was glad that Varric had stopped by. It made the long evenings easier to bear, when she worked on her knitting until the tallow candle was a mere stub and Jase had gone to bed. Today had been a good day—Cullen had kept Jase occupied doing Maker knew what, and she had finally gone back to the work she was good at. She could only pray that joining the Inquisition would continue to give her and Jase purpose, a reason to put one foot in front of the other—a safe haven where they could live freely, without fear of Templars discovering Jase’s magic.

She didn’t trust many, but she trusted the Herald of Andraste and the former Templar who headed the army—she trusted their decency and kindness, the way they had taken two bedraggled refugees in, and given them a purpose again. In return, she would make sure the Herald ate, slept, and didn’t burn herself out.


	11. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Eleven - Cullen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbex) for her betaing. This chapter went through two iterations before it was finished.

Chapter Eleven

Cullen

  
The Storm Coast truly lived up to its reputation. The tide rushed in, great ebbs and flows of water that crashed against the shore. Beside him, Niamh shivered in the chill wind. It ruffled her red hair and blew strands into her eyes that she pushed back with a gloved hand. Picking their way slowly down the cliff to where the group of mercenaries fought Tevinter forces, he watched as she nimbly made her way down the steep rock face.

The sound of battle grew louder, and he made out the figure of the tall qunari man with a greatsword ramming a Tevinter mage with it. The mage called forth a fireball, and Cullen’s training as a templar kicked in, nullifying the magic, and rendering the mage harmless.

On one side of him, Cathal nocked an arrow to his bow and fired, and Harry on his other side flanked him. Niamh brought up the rear, casting elemental magic that was at once both terrifying and beautiful. Cathal fired another arrow, moving on silent feet down the sandy shoreline. The mercenaries took on the Tevene soldiers, their order and discipline so similar to how he had seen the Qunari in Kirkwall years ago.

Drawing his sword, he joined the battle, using his templar training once again, his sword and shield a blur in the melee. Cullen heard the loud Qunari issuing orders to his men, and they worked in synchronicity to take down the Tevinter forces. Beside him, Niamh cast protection and healing spells in rapid succession, bathing him in a warm glow. There were shouts as the Tevinter soldiers fell, and as the bodies were looted for what useful possessions their owners would no longer need.

In war, he had learned, the rules of honour and chivalry didn’t matter, unlike in the books he read. Maybe it had, a long time ago, but he had found that war rarely played by the chivalric codes enshrined within the Order’s doctrine. At least, not since the start of the Mage-Templar conflict, where all rules and ethics had been thrown away by Meredith’s actions, rendering them leaderless in those early days. He was not proud of the man he had been then; for his hatred had been encouraged, nursed, fed into by Meredith’s paranoia.

“….we would welcome your assistance, The Iron Bull,” Niamh said, jolting Cullen out of his thoughts. He looked at the debris on the shore, and the tidy pile of bodies ready to be burned.

“Aye. I’ll burn the bodies, Your Worship,” Cathal said, betraying nothing of his relationship to Niamh. On the field, he seemed to be able to put aside his feelings about his younger sister long enough to do his job. Cullen respected that.

“Thank you Cathal,” Niamh said. She looked at Cullen with ice in her eyes, and it hurt him deeply.

They had yet to talk about that night in Haven, where she had unleashed her ire on him. She’d withdrawn from him, and it hurt immeasurably. He missed their nightly chats, the warmth of her regard. But she had been righteously angry at his attitude—and the attitude of the Templars towards mages and the Tranquil.

Niamh had not had anything to tell him that he did not already know. It wounded him, far deeper than he wanted to admit, to see the icy cold fury in her gaze, and knowing he had been the one who put it there.

Gone were the warm smiles and friendly chats in the long hours of the night. Gone was the warm woman she had been—the one who had managed to penetrate the ice around his heart. They were like two ships in the night, though whether that had been her intention or not, he couldn’t say. He had tried, in his inept way, to apologise to her, to make her understand that he wasn’t that man any more—that he no longer viewed mages in the same light he had done back in Kirkwall, smarting and reeling from the events in Ferelden. He had wanted to serve, and he had failed once more. This was the third and final chance he was giving himself—if this didn’t work out, he would go mad.

He had noticed the group Niamh had built up around herself— Vivienne and Josephine, Solas, Patentia, and of course her family. He lacked that same group— Varric had tried over the past ten weeks to get him to play Wicked Grace, but he had thrown himself into his work, choosing solitude and work that occupied his mind.

“Our accommodation in Haven is rapidly filling up,” Cullen said to Niamh in an undertone. “I do worry that we’re almost at capacity—the town and lake shore are going to be fit to bursting. Madame de Fer has already given me quite the tongue-lashing over it.”

Cullen had heard Madame de Fer accosting one of his messengers on his way to the war room. He’d stepped in, but had gained the impression that Vivienne thought he was little better than the Fereldan dog lord all Fereldans were meant to be. It didn’t matter that he had once been a Templar, she had unleashed her ire on all in the vicinity. Vivienne had then turned her cold anger on him, demanding to know what he had done to Niamh to make her a shell of her former self.

“I know,” Niamh said, her voice cold. “I’m worried that there’ll be fighting before the week’s out over the lack of suitable quarters.” She sighed, and turned away from him.

His chest constricted as she turned away from him, and it took all of his control not to reach out to her. He saw her step away, and watched the mantle of Herald settle around her shoulders, turning her into the inscrutable, calm, woman that she had turned into over these eight weeks. They had barely spoken, save for missions that needed her approval at the war table, and even that had been perfunctory. He missed the woman who fell asleep in his tent, the woman who had shared long nights of insomnia with him, talking, laughing, and occasionally falling asleep at his table. He missed Niamh— he didn’t know this version of her, the cold, careful, almost Tranquil Herald of Andraste. He missed their easy conversation, their shared cups of hot cocoa, the closeness of their companionship. This Lady Trevelyan was not the woman he knew.

“The only place that we could house some of the new refugees and faithful Andrastians who pour into Haven is on the lake, but I don’t like the idea of the ice melting— it’s too unsafe,” Cullen mused. “We’ll have to talk to our builders about it.”

Niamh nodded. “You’re right. I’ll schedule a meeting when we’re back from this.”

“Yes, you should,” he agreed, and looked around.

The Iron Bull’s men finished stripping the bodies bare of any valuables, and the Qunari mercenary straightened up. “We’re expensive, but we’re the best this side of Par Vollen,” he said in his thickly accented voice. “This here is Stitches,” he indicated an elf, and Cullen reminded himself that he’d seen enough elves join the Qun during his tenure in Kirkwall. Cullen had to pull his mind away from those days—away from the thoughts of Orla Hawke and the fate the Arishok had nearly meted out to her.

“Could we please talk?” He asked Niamh softly, his voice betraying his meaning. “Not about the Inquisition, not about Haven and Madame de Fer. But about that night…”

Niamh swallowed. He saw the conflict in her eyes—it mirrored the conflict in his heart. “Later.”

“Now, please.” He sounded pathetic. “I’m sorry.”

“For what, exactly, Cullen? For being a Templar? For thinking that a Tranquil deserves to be treated like an object and not as a person?” Niamh’s voice betrayed a hint of tears. He watched as she battled for control over her emotions.

“For everything. For being a Templar, Maker help me,” he said, his voice raw with pain. “Please, can we just talk?”

Niamh considered him for a moment, before she nodded. “I hate it—I hate how I can’t stay angry with you, even when you act like a colossal jackalope. I hate not being able to share my day’s work with you—I miss our nightly chats in your tent. Maker help me, I miss you.”

She brushed the tears from her cheeks, and Cullen desperately wanted to take her in his arms, to tell her he’d already forgiven her harsh words to him that night in Haven. He would’ve forgiven her twice, thrice over if only she would forgive him. He missed her, desperately. He wanted so badly to feel her nestle against him, to have the liberty of calling her Niamh again.

“I miss you too, Lady Trevelyan,” he said.

“Cullen—I…” Niamh was at a loss for words, but she smiled softly through the tears. “Please, just call me Niamh again.” She turned to go back down the pathway to the beach, back to her role of being the Herald of Andraste. Already he could see the set of her shoulders and the lift of her chin as she walked back down towards where the Chargers milled around.

He had to pretend they were nothing more than Herald and Commander, especially in front of this new mercenary company. It hurt to pretend such a thing, but in front of new people, he couldn’t be the impulsive idiot who helped her off her horse. He couldn’t be the one who so desperately wanted to hold her in his arms and never let go.

Cathal came to stand beside him. “Hurt her again, and I’ll feed ye tae the mabaris.” His voice held a low threat, and Cullen knew the man meant it.

“I can’t make a promise like that. Neither of us can,” Cullen said to Cathal, turning to face him. “I only meant to make—Maker’s breath, I’m not explaining myself very well.”

“You’re making a dog’s breakfast of it,” Cathal said bluntly. “She trusts you for some reason. I dinna ken why. Not after the argument you had. I don’t know what she sees in you, but it’s something.”

Cullen sighed. The hurt that had radiated from Niamh had hit him so hard that all the air had been knocked out of his lungs. “I’ll try to do better,” he said slowly.

Cathal shook his head. “Don’t try. Just do better. Be the better man, the better person.”

Cullen watched as Niamh negotiated with The Iron Bull, who guffawed at something she’d said, and relaxed slightly as she turned back to him with a welcoming smile. His heart felt lighter than it had in days, but they had not fully finished their talk. A yawning chasm still separated them. But, she had smiled at him.

How he wanted to join her—so badly. But one of them had to organise the logistics of the night watch, the supervision of the camp setup. Someone had to let Sister Nightingale know they had signed on the Bull’s Chargers mercenary company, though Cullen suspected they were more than simple mercenaries.

Cullen shook his head. “There’s jobs to do, Lady Trevelyan,” he said formally, mindful of where they were and who they were meant to be. It would be so easy to call her Niamh, to slip up in front of so many.

“Very well, Commander,” Niamh replied softly. She walked away from him, and his heart gave a sudden lurch.

“W-wait, I….” Cullen jogged towards her, and took her hand in his. Glancing over his shoulder to ensure they had privacy, he pulled her into a hug, and the hand not occupied slid up to cup the back of her head. Her arms looped around his neck, and it would be an infinitely tiny move for her to stand on her tiptoes, their noses nuzzling—

“Milady Herald!” Someone shouted.

They sprung apart, and Cullen cursed the interruption under his breath. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, and Niamh flushed a rather pretty shade of pink. Her palms were still pressed to his chest, and he covered one of them with his hand.

“I…uh…. I suppose I should see what disaster awaits me,” Niamh said, with her usual wry humour. “Let’s hope it’s only a tent peg come loose in the wind, or the flint isn’t working for the campfire…”

He watched her go.

The tents were pitched under his supervision, with the latrines dug some several feet outside the camp boundaries. Bears had been seen in the area, so Cathal had gone scouting, bringing back some fresh meat for their supper. Every single Trevelyan he had met so far, with perhaps the exception of Dougal, had done their best to help out. Tommie clearly ruled the family with an iron fist gloved in velvet, and he saw where Niamh got her strength and her moral code from.

He really ought to write to Mia and Branson. They were overdue a letter—but what could he say to them? Maker knew he hadn’t been home to Honnleath since this all began, and he doubted very much that he would return, at least not until he had fulfilled the obligations he had towards the Inquisition. Because the Inquisition, not his personal feelings, had to come first. He had sworn an oath attesting to that very fact—and abandoning that vow and oath felt wrong, as though he were sacrificing his integrity for folly.

But holding her in his arms, for that brief moment, had felt right. So it had also been the night he’d helped her off her horse, her small and delicate hand in his larger one. They’d also had that moment at the end of a day, when he had taken her hand, and she had smiled at him.

He thought of their midnight talks, and the fascinating topics they had talked about—everything from Antivan philosophers right through to their shared experiences in the Circle Tower. Hers hadn’t had abominations roaming through the halls or a madman transforming his friends into horrid nightmare versions of themselves. She’d had friends disappear, and he knew his side of the equation had been to blame.

The sky glowed pink and the wind picked up as he stood on the shore, looking out over the grey expanse of sea. Somewhere in the distance, was Kirkwall, and Ostwick. He wondered whether he could ever go back to Kirkwall, whether the place would forever be tainted by the emotions and events that had unfolded.

Niamh came to stand beside him, her red hair escaping the buns she kept it in and blowing around her face. She had never looked more lovely, with her hair and her dark grey cloak billowing. She tilted her head to the side in a rather fetching manner, exposing the creamy stretch of neck. He wondered, briefly, what it would be like to kiss the side of it, to do all manner of things with her as his willing partner. But that would be for another time, another place—another everything.

“All under control?” he asked her, as they watched the sunset and the first wash of colour from the brilliant sky.

Below them, the camp was a hive of ant activity, black specks against the stormy sea. He wanted to stand behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist and have her leaning against him. He ached for her, for what they could be to one another if he wasn’t a coward, a broken, despairing man who had nothing worthwhile to offer a cultured and educated mage from Ostwick. A lyrium-addled mess who was slowly weaning himself off the substance, though he craved it still. He was the son of simple fisherfolk, hardly a worthy match for this fine lady in front of him.

“All under control,” Niamh said.

As people began to seek their tents, Niamh stood on the shore, her arms wrapped around her body for warmth. Her cloak billowed behind her in the night air, and the twin moons cast silvery orbs across the vast expanse of water. He watched her, standing there, a solitary figure against the endless sea. Her hair was unbound, and he supposed she had taken it down in preparation for bed. He had never seen her so free, her face turned towards the wind and the sea, her eyes closed. The bliss on her face as her hair stirred in the breeze, the unguarded moment he caught her in, would remain with him.

Her composure, and her ability to pretend things were fine when they were certainly not fine made him love her more.

_Love._

It hit him like a tonne of bricks.

“Your tent, or mine? We need to talk,” Niamh said, her voice soft.

“My tent,” he said. She gave him a little nod, extending her hand out to grasp his.

He’d missed their little routines, the shared cups of cocoa or tea, the talking about anything and everything. The sheer comfort of having her in his tent, brightening his nights of sleepless contemplation. They walked the short distance to his tent, and Cullen lifted the flap, ushering Niamh in with a smile. She smiled back, entering the tent as Cullen let the tent flap fall behind them. The small table with the two chairs set up in the same configuration they were back at Haven. The lantern light flickered behind the glass, its wick soaking up the oil. The coloured glass added a ruby glow to the tent. It made the entire tent feel cosy and comforting.

“You know, everyone keeps asking me if I’m all right,” Niamh said, tenting her fingers as she rested her elbows on the table. “They’ve apparently noticed something’s gone wrong.”

“Josephine keeps checking my tent in the morning to see if you’re hiding there. I’m not sure whether to be alarmed or amazed that she knows exactly where to look,” Cullen said, chuckling nervously and rubbing the back of his neck.

It had been a very long two months. Two months without her in his life— oh, they talked, but it had mainly been to do with the Inquisition, and nothing to do with their long chats deep into the night. Two months of Josephine threatening to write to Mia, of Cassandra trying to figure out what had happened between him and Niamh— two months of people looking terrified of him whenever he drilled his troops.

“She keeps inviting me to take tea with her,” Niamh said. “She’s offered to put me up in the cloister in the chantry, but Solas’s hut is more convenient and closer to my work. He’s strangely insistent that I understand the anchor and what it does— as well as insisting I learn more about my spirit healing work. I can’t say I can see much improvement in my understanding of the anchor, but my healing is somehow more effective.”

“Josephine keeps threatening to write to Mia, Maker help us,” Cullen admitted wryly. “She knows how to wield her powers of persuasion very well. The last thing I want, or need, is Mia to come to Haven with her small children.”

“I think I’d like your sister,” Niamh gave him an impish grin.

“Maker, no.” Cullen shook his head. “Rosalie and Branson— you might like them, but Mia is…. How do I put this politely? A whirling dervish…”

Niamh giggled, and Cullen found that he had missed that sound more than anything else. The sound of her laugh had been conspicuously absent for the past two months. He had missed so much about being around her— the feel of her in his arms as he put her to bed when she had closed her eyes at the table, and the sleepy smiles she’d given him as he pulled the blanket up over her form. He’d often closed his eyes after she had, taking the chair at the table and pulling his mantle off to use as a pillow.

“From what you’ve said, she’s more of a tempest in a teakettle than a whirling dervish,” Niamh said. She stood, and went to the tiny travelling chest that had come with them. Opening it, she pulled out a burner, and a small teakettle. “I’ll be back in a moment. We need tea,” she said.

He glanced around the tent as she left, noting the lack of disorder and disarray in this tent compared to the one at Haven. He hadn’t done much in the past two months other than drill his troops relentlessly, pushing them harder and harder with each drill. He’d thrown himself into the work, demanding nothing less than perfection from himself and his men.

Niamh lifted the tent flap and re-entered, carrying the pot of water in. He smiled at her when she put it down on the table and opened the lid to toss the muslin bag into the pot. He smelled the familiar scent of the tea they shared at night, when neither of them slept. The clean and astringent taste of the rashvine nettle mixed with rosehips and chamomile was familiar, a soothing taste for him. He reached down for the tiny pot of honey he kept to sweeten it. He gave her a hesitant smile, and a shy smile bloomed on hers too. While they waited for the tea to draw, Cullen reached across the table to take her hand.

He had reflected night after night on the things Niamh had said, about the way he had viewed the Tranquil.

“I’ve been thinking,” he began, as Niamh poured the tea into the enamelware cups. “About what you said that night.”

Niamh considered him, her head slightly tilted to the side. “About which part?” she asked him softly.

“All of it,” Cullen said. “You’re right. I don’t have nine hundred years of being told I’m dangerous— so how can I possibly understand the struggle you’ve gone through?”

Niamh let out a long breath, her eyes sad and tired. “You have nine hundred years of the Chantry telling you I’m a danger to not only myself, but to Thedas at large. It won’t change overnight, and I don’t expect your thinking to change that rapidly over two months— it will take us both a lifetime to undo this, if we are to ever be friends— or more than friends.”

He reached across the table, and poured the tea into enamelware cups, carefully, deliberately. Niamh picked up the small jar of honey, and looked for a teaspoon.

“In the chest, I think,” Cullen said, standing and rubbing the back of his neck. “I’ll—uh— I’ll get it?”

He rummaged through the chest and found two teaspoons hidden behind the philtre of lyrium. He wasn’t sure why that was there, but it tempted him— the dose wasn’t quite as strong as the one Meredith had fed her templar acolytes, but it was strong all the same. Flexing his hand, Cullen looked down at the three scars along his wrist, where he had found veins to inject into. The lyrium collar the Chantry leashed them with had never felt harsher, had never been harder to resist.

But he had been free of lyrium now for weeks— nineteen weeks, three days, and twelve hours. Each one of those nineteen weeks, three days, and twelve hours had been torturous, the burning in his gut a hunger that he could never satiate, a longing so deep, dark, and desperate that he had almost given in several times— promising himself that it would be his last dose, the final one before he could quit the drug for good. Never had serving the Maker and the Prophet seemed more a burden than a blessing. His faith, shattered and shuttered, closed off from his everyday— he could no longer be that man he had been; no longer sure and swift in action and in deed. The hollow shell of his life since the day Uldred had slaughtered his friends had marked him, marked him as clearly as the brand on a Tranquil’s forehead.

He returned to the table with the teaspoons, and Niamh looked at him, her expression calm and collected.

“Tell me about Kirkwall— if we’re going to figure out where we’re going, I need to know everything,” Niamh suggested, softly. “I want to understand— I know you wanted to serve after what happened in Ferelden, but not the full story there, either. You went from wanting to serve and protect, to this brutal regime.”

His hands shook as he stirred the honey into his tea. The spoon rattled against the enamelware. Reliving seven years of Knight Commander Meredith’s gradual decline from relatively sane to crazed by the lyrium idol was not something he wished to recall. But Niamh had asked, and he was powerless to deny her anything. She deserved to know the ugly truth of his time there. A time where he was simply grateful to be given orders, even from a madwoman, grateful not to be banished from the Order for his failure to prevent the mages rising in rebellion in Ferelden during the Blight.

“I can try,” Cullen said. “I don’t like the man I was back then… I’m… not proud of who I was.”

Niamh reached across the small space to take his larger hand in her two smaller ones, squeezing in an offer of sympathy. “I can handle it, Cullen. I really can. You forget I was First Enchanter. Whatever it is— you can tell me.”

He took a deep breath, and began.

  
  
-•-•-

  
  
_“Knight-Commander, the Gallows are secure,” Cullen says, his back straight, posture rigid. “Is there anything further…?”_

_Meredith’s head never lifts from the pages she shuffles. “No, Cullen.”_

_Cullen turns to leave, and halfway to the door, Meredith speaks again._

_“Actually… Please ensure that the apostates are rounded up. They are holed up in a cave on the Wounded Coast. More than likely that they will be starving. Pretend to offer them shelter, and wipe them out. Oh, and if Orla Hawke is there, please tell me that she’s not working with the mages.”_

_“Yes, Knight-Commander,” Cullen gives her a stiff bow. He has a premonition that Hawke **would** be there— she had a strange habit of appearing whenever he tried to carry out Knight-Commander Meredith’s orders. The Fereldan refugee seemed to always ally herself with the hopeless cases, the downtrodden and the dangerous, and her apostate mage, Anders. It surprised him that Anders was still alive, he’d been hunting him for a while, back when he had constantly escaped Kinloch Hold. Both Anders and Hawke were thorns in his side— the former Grey Warden turned apostate and Hawke with her magic was protected by her status of Champion of Kirkwall._

_He does not allow himself to remember her._

_Hawke has powerful friends, Cullen does not wish to provoke the ire of the general population of Kirkwall by arresting her, and Anders— well, he is untouchable; in the years since the end of the Blight, many people look unfavourably on arresting a Warden. They were heroes, after all— and heroes did not deserve to be hoisted up by their own petards, especially when said heroes had been so recently feted by the Ferelden court._

«—•—»

_Another day, another order. Cullen’s hand on the sword and shield are steady, as they round up the apostates. He is glad to have purpose, to serve a Knight-Commander that **understands** that he just wants to serve. It doesn’t matter how frivolous the charge— he does what he is told, and never questions her orders. He is just glad that he can serve—that the Order still permits him to serve. He has lyrium, purpose, and a set of orders to follow. There are moments where through the haze of lyrium, he begins to wonder whether his path is the righteous one the boy of ten had started down, all those years earlier._

_Blood on his hands, so much blood and death, so much gore and unmitigated horror. Mages immolate themselves to avoid capture, to avoid being branded with the Chantry’s sun that made them tranquil. Mages who choose to drown rather than submit to Templars. At the centre of the explosion waiting to happen is Knight-Commander Meredith. Her dark shadow and iron-grip on the mages does nothing to assuage Cullen’s guilt. Blood on his hands, in his mouth, spraying from the decapitated mage in front of him, their body prone, blood staining sand. The tide laps at his boots, red foam left in the sea’s wake. His sword drops from his hand, his shield clattering beside it as he kneels in the ocean, a whispered fever-dream, the lyrium in his veins singing songs unheard since Andraste’s conquest._

_«—•—»_

_“Knight-Captain,” Meredith says, her voice harder than steel, and colder than ice. “You **will** kill these mages. Otherwise, I’ll discharge you from the Order.”_

_“Are you certain?” Cullen questions. “Knight-Commander, the mages have **surrendered**. The mage behind the attack on the Chantry has been killed, and I don’t think that Grand Cleric Elthina would sanction this. She wanted peace!”_

_She strikes him, hard and fast like an asp, his head snapping backwards as he reels from the fury of her backhand. It is not the first time he has seen Meredith lose control, strike and lash out. These incidents have been frequent in the last few weeks, but never has it been directed at **him**. His hand moves to his cheek, blood leaking from his nose. “You have your orders, **Rutherford**. Carry them out.”_

_«—•—»_

_Standing in the Gallows as Meredith orders the annulment of the Kirkwall Circle, he tells Knight-Commander Meredith to stand down, relieving her of her command. It does nothing— and Cullen watches, powerless, as Meredith and Orsino face off. They are steel and lyrium, each balancing the other out, as Hawke glares at the both of them. He knows now that Meredith’s been listening to the poisoned lyrium song, the faint echo of something deeper lurking within. He can hear the hissing of the lyrium, tainted, foul, corrupt. He doesn’t understand— and yet he understands it all._

_Madness._

_Despair._

_The unbearable craving for order and ritual, for normalcy. That had been what Meredith had promised him in exchange for his services._

_And then she was nothing more than molten gold and copper gleaming in sunlight and torchlight, the gleaming red blade and red eyes of her madness a permanent fixture in the Gallows. A reminder to all as to the cost of power, and the payment required._

  
-•-•-

 

“I’m so, so sorry you endured that.” Niamh’s voice sounded close to tears. She stripped her gloves from her hands, and came to stand behind him. Her hands found his shoulders, and Cullen flinched. He hadn’t been touched like that in a long time, and he wasn’t sure if he could cope with her empathy. His hand reached to cover hers, stopping her as she made to squeeze his shoulders.

“Don’t,” he said softly. He pulled her down into his lap, their fingers entwining.

“Don’t what?” she asked, her arm draped loosely across his back. “Don’t act with empathy and understanding?” Niamh’s voice was gentle, her touch soothing him. “Or is it more that you feel that you don’t deserve either understanding or comfort?”

“I—” Cullen began, watching the green anchor on her hand. “Does that hurt?”

She glanced down at the mark, and then back at him. “It used to, but it seems to have settled down for the moment. But you’re deflecting.”

Cullen gave an awkward chuckle. He supposed he was deflecting, for better or for worse. “I— I just…”

Her hand found the back of his neck, and ran through his short curly hair. He trusted her enough that it was not something to shy away from— the action gentle and loving. Did it have to be this hard not to kiss her, not to want to hold her in his arms an eternity, always wanting her close by? Hoping that she would one day understand that he had been broken by the events in Kinloch Hold, and broken further by Kirkwall and the mage uprising. He stripped his gloves from his hands, and cupped her face, his thumbs caressing her cheeks as he leaned in to kiss her very softly at the corner of her mouth, and then skimmed his lips gently along her jawline.

Niamh responded, willingly, her body melding to his.

When he finally would take her to bed, he decided, it would not be in a tent on the Storm Coast, the army camped just nearby— it would be in a bed with soft sheets and soft pillows, a world away from the chaos of the Inquisition and its many cares and worries, when he was worthy of the love she offered him— so poor and pathetic as he appeared now.

He would be content this night to kiss her, to hold her in his arms, and drift off to sleep.

  
-•-•-

 

The soft rays of early morning light filtered in through the tent, and Cullen awoke from a fitful sleep. Niamh dozed in his arms, and for a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Flashes of the previous night came back to him: the long night’s talk, a few moments of peace and quiet. He needed a dip in the ocean to combat his problem, which became more apparent the longer she was pressed against him in sleep. Without disturbing her, he slid out of the bedrolls they had shared the night before— Maker knew she needed sleep--and found his shirt and breeches. He didn’t bother with his boots, but he grabbed his shaving towel from his kit bag, draped it over his shoulder, and exited the tent.

Blessedly, the camp was silent and still. He reached the shore, stripping before he plunged himself into the ocean, submerging himself to rid his body of his raging hard on.

He ducked his head under the water, and swam out. He needed to clear his head, to make himself stop and reassess what had happened the night before. They had crossed some invisible barrier, and yet—yet there were still the moments of hurt that had flashed in her eyes when he thought of that night where some of her anger had come spilling out of her. He had been so blind to the true injustices of the Circle, though he had seen it with his own eyes—but he had always minimised it. The lack of liberty, of determining one’s own fate, had never been an option granted to mages under Templar scrutiny; even what he had done in the Circle had been nothing more than a glorified gaoler, when he had thought he was being a protector.

The Templar Order had promised him a life, of service in a holy calling. Instead, it had been a life where love was used against you—twisted into some grotesque instrument that the powerful wielded. He looked up at the sky, and saw a hawk flying high above them, and for a moment, Cullen wished he was that hawk, wished he could be just as free. Something had to change, some fundamental piece of himself had to be broken before he could mend, before he could be the man he wanted to be. He wanted to be worthy of Niamh’s regard—to feel worthy of standing before her and knowing he was where he wanted to be.

He knew that, should the Maker call him to his side, he would be found unworthy. Broken. Disgusting. A lyrium-addled mess who had once asked to serve when he was truly unfit for it. He should have left the Order after Uldred’s Uprising, but he had wanted to serve—to prove himself to an Order that should’ve been better.

Things were fundamentally broken in the Order, the way they made their templars dependant on a drug that made them lose their minds when withdrawing from the poison. The decision to not take it had not been an easy one to make, but he had seen the way Meredith’s mind became addled, the way the red lyrium idol taken from that Maker-cursed thaig in the Deep Roads had twisted them all, he knew there had to be an end to that madness.

As he came up for air, he saw a vision standing on the beach. He smiled as he came towards Niamh, watching as she glanced carefully away, avoiding his nudity. He dressed rapidly, his back to her as he pulled on his breeches and shirt. A faint flush coloured her cheeks as she turned to face him, smiling. Here, on this beach, they could perhaps begin anew. He put his hand on her shoulder, reaching to kiss her cheek as Niamh turned, and his kiss missed her cheek, but landed on her lips. The burning flame sparked once more, and the chaste kiss he had intended turned into more; his hands drawing her closer to him, hands on her waist as her own arms looped around his neck. And he never wanted to stop; never wanted to end this beautiful moment on the beach.


	12. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Twelve - Cathal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I scrapped a POV that really wasn't working for me, and instead, we get a new character in the form of Cathal Ignatius Trevelyan, the brother of Niamh. He's rapidly become a favourite OC, and you'll hopefully see why. As always, thanks to the amazing [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Barbex) for the betaing, and to everyone who is reading. It means a lot. <3

 

  
Cathal Trevelyan crossed his arms over his chest as he surveyed the ruined building that had once been the Temple of Sacred Ashes. Shivering as the wind picked up, he looked at the destruction wrought by the explosion, and sighed. People had died here, he knew that much. But the scale of the destruction— he’d heard the stories as they made their way to Haven, but seeing it in person was entirely different.

Four months ago, there hadn’t been a gaping hole in the sky and his little sister had been safely herding her group of wayward students through the Trevelyan estate, praying for a miracle to end the war.

He was so weary and tired of war; walking onto the fields of slain men and women, seeing the utter disregard for life in the corpses that littered the battlefields— it was enough to make him weep. And still, he continued his slow, methodical work of identifying dead bodies. This disaster zone was no different— eyes still stared sightlessly into a sky that was as cruel as it was beautiful—fly-blown corpses in the height of summer, carrion birds circling, cawing and crowing to one another in their endless hunt for fresh meat. Heads were still miles away from bodies, severed limbs and torsos found floating in shallow pools. And still, the world went on killing— it’s appetite whetted by Blights, civil wars, and global catastrophes.

He had seen the shields of Ferelden houses both great and small, the sigils of Marcher families who could not afford to lose sons and daughters, ornate shields from Orlesian families. The bodies needed identifying, and then burning so their souls could return to the Maker’s Golden City, and what remained of their worldly possessions returned to the families, if there were any families to be found.

And now, this.

He crouched down, looking for a glimmer of silver, copper, or gold— the trinkets he would have to send home to the families. Some of the trinkets would be tin, some would be nothing more than a carved wooden soldier poking out from the quagmire. There would sometimes only be a scrap of ribbon, of a shred of blue— as the song went— and nothing more. This disaster zone was utterly different than the ones he usually surveyed; the explosion had levelled everything. He couldn’t believe it was said to have been his sister’s work, before they’d learned the truth.

Or what truth could be found in such a place. Bodies were gone, frozen into bronze statues forever reaching upwards to the heavens, faces torn in terrible masks now and forever. He’d seen such things only once before, and even then, it had been in passing. The Gallows in Kirkwall still held the frozen bronze of Knight-Commander Meredith Stannard, and nobody had ever bothered to remove it— a terrible reminder of how the mage rebellion had begun in the Free Marches. She would remain there, immutable and unmoving before the ending of the world. These bodies he stared out at reminded him of those terrible days immediately following the explosion of the Kirkwall chantry.

“Ser Cathal,” someone said. “There’s news for you.”

Cathal glanced up. “Let’s see what it says, shall we?” he asked the messenger, smiling briefly. “I’m not _Ser_ anything, laddie,” he added. “It’s just Cathal.”

“But Sister Nightingale—”

Cathal held one hand up. “Isnae here. She’s all the way o’er the other side o’ this valley. Leave the formalities in the village, aye?”

“Yes, milord.” The lad said, and blanched as Cathal stared at him. “I mean, C-Cathal.”

“Very good, laddie. Ye’ll learn quickly that I don’t stand on formalities here. It’s not some Orlesian ballroom where we have dukes an’ grand dukes. This is Ferelden, after all.” Cathal smiled encouragingly, before he reached for the sealed scroll. He broke the wax with his penknife, and unfurled the tube.

  
-•-•-

 _They’re not ready,_ Cathal thought, watching mages block clumsily with their staves. _Not by a long shot. They need to be prepared for the very real possibility of combat— how can we send them off to fight not knowing how to fight, to survive?_ He clapped his hands together, a decision made in his mind. He picked up a discarded quarterstaff, nodding to the most promising of the mages to attack him. He brought the staff up to meet the slow, clumsy attack, and knocked the other staff from the mage’s hands.

“Ye don’t mean it,” he said. Shaking his head in good-natured disbelief, he turned to see Cullen standing by the water cart, watching. “We need ye ready. We don’t know what we’re facing, where yer getting sent. If my sister wants you in support roles or on the front lines, we need you to be able to stand and fight.”

He still couldn't believe his little sister was Herald of Andraste. The Maker had a strange sense of humour, putting a mage in charge of an army of the faithful. Not that he didn’t think she could do it— if anyone could do it, it would be her. Someone else would’ve been the wrong pick, someone else wouldn’t have the sheer strength of will to force the world to listen to her. Now he watched as dangerously inept mages attempted to fight, and wondered why they hadn’t ever been trained.

“I don’t envy you your task,” Cullen said, as Cathal came to stand next to him. He took a horn cup from the trestle table, and turned the tap on the water cart’s tank.

“Someone’s gotta get these lads and lasses into fighting shape. Might as well be me.” Cathal shrugged. “Any suggestions, Cullen?”

“You’re promoted,” Cullen said. “You’re now Commander Cathal. Welcome to the chaos of the Inquisition. They’re your soldiers to train— I trust you to discipline, promote, and demote as you see necessary. Major changes must come through me first. But we need these men and women _prepared_ for what is to come.”

Cathal chuckled, and rubbed the stubble on his chin. “First thing we need is better armour and weaponry. And targets. And maybe a magical trebuchet that calibrates itself. Just so you’re not always calibrating the damn thing.” His mouth twisted in an amused smile. “We should get Harry on sourcing that trebuchet— just let him talk about cattle. That usually makes people promise us anything, if only to get Harry to leave. He can be very focused on what he is talking about. It might end up being our secret weapon.”

“Now, about these recruits. We need to put in a requisition order for that magical trebuchet, don’t we?” Cullen said.

Cathal nodded. “Should I sign the requisition, or should you?” He couldn’t fight the grin that spread across his face at the thought of such a wonderful tool. It’d save the incessant need for calibrations, and there’d be more time to train the unprepared mages for battle. They needed armour, too. “I mean, Granny’s our banker, and she’s wealthier than the Maker. Not sure how we’d manage to pull the wool over her eyes.”

“I’ll figure something out,” Cullen said. “But we’ve got men to train. Let’s show them something.”

The two of them drew their swords. Cathal met Cullen’s blade with his own, and they were off, steel ringing against steel as they clashed, sword meeting sword, blow for blow. A demonstration was only as effective as the combatants. “Should we maybe get Niamh?” Cathal wondered aloud. “We saw the effectiveness of showing our troops that she could fight just as well with a blade as with a staff and magic. They need tae start somewhere.”

“You’re right. We should,” Cullen said, meeting Cathal’s blade and knocking it from his hand. “Shall I go, or should you?” His blonde eyebrows rose.

“Why should it be one of us? I thought you were getting along better with my sister now than you were two months ago. What’s changed?” Cathal asked.

He’d seen the haunted expression in his sister’s eyes, and the dark shadows beneath them. He’d also seen the way Cullen pushed the men to the point of desertion, punishing them for minor infractions. He hoped he’d never have to witness that again. The way his sister walked around like a spirit lost on a long-since deserted battlefield, looking for her lost love was a look he never hoped to see again. She’d lost weight; a mere sylph in the wind.

“By the way, if you ever punish the men that way again, you’re going to cause desertion,” Cathal added in an undertone to Cullen as their swords met once again. “I’ve heard their tavern grumblings, and they’re no pleased with ye.”

Cullen frowned. “That’s my _job_ to push and punish them like that.”

“Not as harshly as you did,” Cathal shook his head, already moving as Cullen’s blade came to strike him again. “You could’ve…. I don’t know….Assigned them to cleaning out bedpans in the infirmary.”

“They would’ve mutinied if asked to do that,” Cullen said. He moved out of the way of Cathal’s blade.

“A better punishment than what they got,” Cathal struck again, as Cullen continued moving. “We may not agree on this, but it’ll be fine. So long as you an’ my sister keep being friends, everything will work out. Seems tae me like the two of ye could use some time alone together. Work out yer differences.”

“They’re not the sort of differences that can be worked out in a night,” Cullen said. “They’ll take _years_ , but we’re getting somewhere.”

“Good. Now, about that trebuchet….” Cathal continued, not particularly wanting to talk about his sister’s sex life. It wasn’t something he particularly cared to think about really. “We need to source it from somewhere. I’m thinking the dwarves might know where to find one, or how to construct one, at least.”

“Should we approach the quartermaster, or your granny?” Cullen asked.

Cathal laughed. “Not sure which would be more effective at saying yes. But maybe Granny. She’s our banker, after all.”

It was a sore spot, he knew, with Niamh. He’d been informed by no less than five people about his sister’s nervous breakdown in the quiet of the chantry. Though he wasn’t sure what was truth and what was simply rumour and those trying to curry favour with the enemies of the Inquisition. She’d seemed quiet and pensive these past weeks, and he’d tried to get the truth from her, but she’d shrugged him off, telling him in her usual stoic way not to worry about her. It had made him worry more for her when he noticed how thin she was, and how she seemed to not sleep. But she had never been much of a friend of sleep— he’d known that for years.

“So, shall we?” Cullen sheathed his sword, and Cathal nodded.

“Aye.” Cathal agreed. “We shall.”

He shook his head as they proceeded up the wide, shallow stone steps towards the requisitions table and the chantry beyond. The gates to the upper part of the village swung open on well-oiled hinges, and Cathal was immediately greeted with the smells of cookfires, the bells ringing to call the faithful to prayer. The wide stone steps were sanded, preventing nasty slippages as the spring weather warmed into summer and sludge. The ringing of the smith’s hammer upon metal, and the hiss of metal being plunged into water, plus the braying of hounds and the soft snorting of horses, the bellowing of goats and sheep in season were all around him as they finally arrived at the requisitions table.

“We’d like to requisition a magical trebuchet,” Cathal said, as Threnn the quartermaster glanced up from her work.

“Would ye? Join the queue. We’ll have it ready between now and never,” Threnn said, her face stony.

“Threnn…”

Cathal heard the warning growl in Cullen’s words.

“Commander Cullen, it simply isn’t _possible_ to get you a magic trebuchet,” Threnn said.

Cathal understood where the quartermaster was coming from. “If it’s the expense, Granny _will_ pay for it.”

“It’s not the expense. The expense isn’t the issue— it’s just that there’s no such thing as a magic trebuchet,” Threnn said, sounding like she was at the end of her tether.

He could see the shape of the quartermaster’s day easily enough. It would begin, as he knew, with impossible demands, and absurd requisitions for things he was certain could’ve been bought from an Orlesian market stall for half the price and for twice the quality.

“There is such a thing as a magic trebuchet,” Cullen said, and Cathal saw the effort it took Cullen not to bite Threnn’s head off. “Surely the Qunari have plans for one that we could exploit?”

“I’m not sure Lady Muck Trevelyan’s pockets go that deep,” Threnn replied.

Cathal burst out laughing at Threnn’s description of his grandmother. “Lady Muck, eh?” Cathal shook his head, amused. “I’ll add that to her long list of titles. She tends to acquire titles as quickly as Dougal does women.”

“You’re— you’re _not_ offended?” Threnn sounded incredulous.

“Quartermaster, if I had a copper for every time someone came up with a new epithet for Granny, I’d be a rich man of my own making,” Cathal chuckled, shaking his head. “It takes a great deal more than callin’ Granny Lady Muck to offend me.”

“And it takes a lot more than that to convince me not tae fund a new trebuchet.”

Everyone turned at the sound of Tommie’s voice, and Cathal observed the way she walked. Regal, slow, careful. Her heavy grey cloak swirled around her feet, head held high. Her entourage of women followed her, most of them elderly and frail, but not his grandmother. She bore herself like a queen, and Cathal watched as they came to stand at the requisitions table.

“My Lady,” Threnn bowed, and Cathal watched his grandmother smirk.

“Not a lady, not really,” Granny said. “Don’t bow tae me, I’m Lady Muck, as you put it. I’m as common as that, anyway.”

Cathal glanced at Cullen, and then back at Granny. He struggled to keep his face from betraying his amusement at the situation, and Cullen’s own face betrayed his amusement too. He briefly wondered what Niamh would make of the situation, but something kept him from asking such a thing.

  
-•-•-

The chill wind picked up as Cathal moved along the shore. Back on the Storm Coast with a handful of his most trusted men, he faced the driving wind and biting rains. There’d been reports of a band of mercenaries making nuisances of themselves— and ever the dutiful soldier, he had gone.

He watched a dragon come swooping down, miles ahead of them on the far stony shore. His breath caught as he witnessed her majesty, the ancient being who spread her wings outwards, the ground shaking as she landed. He wasn’t sure who he felt more sorry for: the dragon or the giant that had come along while the dragon landed. Whichever of the two would win that battle, he didn’t know, but his money was on the dragon. When in doubt, bet on the dragon— sound advice for anyone, Cathal supposed.

“Ser?” He’d never get used to people addressing him with the honorific. Even if it was meant as a sign of respect. He’d lost too many men to idiot _Sers_ in battles in the past to ever wish to be addressed by such a title.

“It’s just—”

“Cathal, I know,” Lace Harding smiled at him, her bow at the ready. “Welcome to the Storm Coast. Or, rather, welcome _back_ to the Storm Coast. The situation is bad— we’ve lost good men to these bastards.”

Cathal sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to avenge them, won’t we?”

“Aye.” Scout Harding said. “And do something about this horrendous weather.”

“So, who are they, and what do they want?” Cathal asked, pulling his hood up over his head. He often asked himself that question when dealing with disparate groups of soldiers or rebels. He was still interested in how the other side thought.

“They call themselves the Blades of Hessarian. They claim they’ll work for anyone with the strength to defeat their current leader, who, let’s face it, sounds like an ass,” Harding said. “Our scouts have come back with missing hands and some with scars the length of their face for trying.”

“Good tae know. Let’s out-think the bastards.” Cathal clapped his hand on Harding’s shoulder. He looked up at the cliff, eyes searching for the safest, quickest path upwards. He spied a likely candidate, the pathway that led him along the river. “There,” He pointed to the pathway. “We’re safest this way.”

Sure and steady, he climbed the cliff-face. Pulling his hood down over his head as the rain poured down, he picked his way up the path, Scout Harding following in his footsteps. At the top of the cliff, the half-ruined house emerged through the fog, its oilskin window dressings flapping in the wind. He wondered who had lived there; what their life had been like before they were driven from this place, where they had gone— and whether it had been in a hurry. Abandoned houses were never a good sign; he’d seen too many of those in the Orlesian Dales and where the fighting had been thickest.

“What happened here?” he asked, not sure he wanted Harding’s answer. But he wanted answers.

“The Blades of Hessarian is my guess,” Harding said, pushing the ruined door open.

“Could be.” He stepped into the ruined house, the door squeaking on rusted hinges. The sour smell that rose from a pile of rags in the corner hit him as the wind picked up. “Harding, there’s someone here,” he said, pointing to the rags.

“Please… Leave me in peace,” the thin voice said, and Cathal turned, walked over, and crouched down.

“I’m Cathal,” he introduced himself as he looked at the malnourished sack of rags. “I’m not going tae hurt ye,” he added as the person shrank back.

“Cathal?” Lace Harding cautioned.

Cathal ignored her. “What’s your name?”

“It’s Mollie.”

“Well, Mollie. I’m going tae get ye to safety, then head back up here to find what’s been behind these attacks.” Cathal extended his hand to the girl. He wondered how she’d survived so long on her own. “D’ye have family tae stay wi’?”

Mollie shook her head. “Dead. Some drowned when the castle was taken.”

Cathal hadn’t been aware that there’d been a castle on the Storm Coast. He blinked. “Where’s the castle, lass?”

“It’s on the far shore,” Lace said. “We’ve not been able to get to it, because every time we’ve tried, the sea’s swallowed the entrance.”

He ran his hand over his beard, and sighed. “That’s no good.” He wondered whether there would be a day when a mission would go to plan.

Cathal removed his cloak, wrapping it around Mollie’s shoulders. They proceeded down the cliff face again, the wind and driving rain making the path even more perilous. As they reached the tents and the fire that he was sure had been enchanted to not go out, he glanced at both Lace and Mollie, and the other gave him a tight nod.

“See that the lass is fed and given a warmer set of outer garments. I’m headin’ back up the cliff,” he told the camp master.

“As ye say, milord,” the woman nodded.

“Coming, Harding?” Cathal asked.

“Always, Cathal,” Harding said, her smile broad and warm. “I’ll always come with you.”

They picked their way up the cliff again, this climb slightly easier now Cathal knew the path. He noticed the ancient dwarven statues, and wondered how long they had been there. But he also saw the signs of their quarry, the telltale markings on the ground that suggested the presence of both men and mabaris. The faint tang of the sea air and the taste of salt did not obliterate the smell of other fires and other camps nearby. He heard the rushing of the waves and barking, a sure sign they were headed in the right direction. The rugged cliffs and rough terrain gave way to gentle rolling hills and green grass, with trees as tall as the spire on the top of a chantry. He drew his crossbow, loaded a bolt, and held it at the ready as he heard the faint sound of voices coming from the valley below. The ringing of steel on steel— another sure sign they were approaching their destination— and the thudding of arrows as they hit their straw targets.

“A silver says one of these bandits has a crossbow,” Cathal muttered, his voice low and pitched for Harding’s ears only. “I know the sound they make, it’s a much duller sound when the bolts hit the straw.”

“A sovereign says they’ve all got them,” Harding countered, and Cathal chuckled softly.

“You’ve got yerself a wager,” Cathal said, as he raised his crossbow, preparing to fire.

He moved stealthily, his moves sure and steady as he crouched. He saw the sun reflecting off the steel helmet, and aimed. Squeezing the trigger on the crossbow, Cathal dispatched one of the bandits, before motioning to Harding to follow him. They sneaked along the large log fence, the spikes a reminder that they were a garrison. Or at least as much a garrison as a group of idiot fanatics could be. He aimed the next shot through the gate, right between the eyes of a man who carried a greatsword on his back, reloading and then shooting again. This one fell, a silent slumping to the earth as Cathal kicked the gate open. Readying himself once more for a battle, he reloaded his crossbow, ready for anything.

Harding carried herself well, Cathal noticed as she stood beside him, her bow at the ready. Together the two of them moved on silent feet towards the front of their makeshift fortress, watching as the alarm was sounded. A grim smile on his face and the look of fury in Harding’s eyes as they glanced at one another and then back at the enemy, and then they were off again, a flurry of crossbow bolts and arrows flying through the air, whistling as the arrows found their targets.

“Is this all of them?” Cathal asked, as he looked at the injured men. They had bruises and gashes on their faces, some slumped on another’s shoulders. They’d been hard at fighting, but some of the injuries looked older— purple bruising slowly turning to mustard yellow. Another had a broken nose already swelling and a dozen black eyes on the men made him think they’d all been fighting hard. “Surely there’s more tae kill?”

“Please, don’t kill us….” A blue-tunic clad man said. “We want nothing from you but your assurance you’ll kill our leader.”

“You want us to….?” Harding’s voice sounded incredulous. “But— he’s your _leader_!”

“He ain’t our leader. He’s just the brute who managed to murder the old leader, and we’re right sick of bein’ ‘is lackeys,” the man said.

Cathal ran a hand over his beard, and sighed. “So you want me to kill him? How does that make things _better_?” He’d spent the better part of the past decade arguing against wars, and it seemed everyone wanted a war. Killing was always good for an economy; it kept the smiths and the armourers in business, the farmers growing crops and tending their livestock, the entire world benefited from war; peace made men fat and lazy.

“You’d command us, then. We think anyone’d be preferable over ‘im, an’ ‘e’s not a good leader, ‘e’s a right bastard,” the man said.

He glanced back at Harding, raising his eyebrows. She gave an exaggerated shrug, and Cathal chuckled silently. They didn’t seem to be the sharpest swords in the forge, but their strength in numbers would make up for it, as he took in the shabby surrounds. The creaking door hinges and oilskin over the windows, the mabari in their cages looking like they’d not been fed in days— these were all signs of men hard on their luck. Men who were desperate enough to join a cause that promised them a hot meal and a warm blanket for the nights to come; would they be quick to turn traitor, or would they be loyal after they had warm food in their bellies? He’d never been a gambling man, but the Inquisition needed eyes and ears in places where they could not go.

“And what’s in it for me?” Cathal countered.

“Eyes and ears on the Storm Coast, milord,” the man replied. “Reliable, I swear.”

He looked once again at Harding. She gave him a slow nod. “Aye. I’ve heard that before. That oath. Can I really trust a bunch of religious fanatics tae be loyal to the Herald of Andraste’s army?”

“We do mean it,” the Blade said. “We’ll pledge our men to your cause, whatever It is, once you’ve dealt with the bastard that’s our current leader.”

“I’m going tae need more than jus’ yer word. Words don’t always translate tae action,” Cathal said. He knew he trod the line between heresy and devotion, between commanding and insubordination, and it didn’t bother him as much as it should. He’d once had to argue with Loghain Mac Tir over his battle plans for Ostagar— and all of southern Thedas knew how well that had gone. “How do I know ye won’t just knife us in the back when it becomes inconvenient for yer to follow us?”

“We won’t, we’re loyal to whoever wields us in the name of Andraste,” the blade said. “I’m called Ivor.”

“Well, Ivor. I’m still going to need your vows.”

“Enough talking! Let’s just kill the bastard and take this offer,” another blade said.

Cathal nodded at Harding. He drew his crossbow from his back, and readied a bolt. “So, how do we find yer current leader?”

“You’ve to wear this necklace,” Ivor said. “I’m not sure why it makes a difference— but it’s how he’ll know you’ve come to challenge him for command.” He drew a necklace from his jerkin, and tossed it to Cathal.

Cathal caught it in his hand, and slipped the leather cord over his neck, the weight of the pendant settling against the hollow of his throat. “Is this truly enough? A pendant that gives me the right of single combat?”

“Aye,” Ivor nodded. “Wear it, and we’ll back your men and women in battle, and in life. We’ll back your Herald of Andraste in battle, too.”

“How’d you—?” Cathal wondered. “I never mentioned my sister’s title of Herald.”

“We have our own whispers, Lord Cathal. We’ve heard her hand can seal the sky, and we will pledge ourselves to your cause because we need her. Why do you think we were attacking her supply lines? It was to get her attention, and now we’ve got it,” Ivor said. “We’ll fight for her, we’ll fight to seal this sky and be loyal to our Bride.”

“So does that mean you’re loyal once I kill this brute for ye?” Cathal pushed.

“Cathal. Let’s just kill the brute and be done with it,” Harding lost her patience with him. “What more of an assurance could you want?”

Ivor nodded emphatically at Harding’s words. “Just do it, please. We’re losing precious daylight.”

He sighed, closed his eyes, and shook his head to clear his thoughts. He turned, drawing his sword from its sheath, and moved towards the centre of the Blades of Hessarian Camp. Harding drew her bow, nocking an arrow, and Cathal nodded tersely at her. Cathal waited a moment, before launching himself into the attack.

Swift and bloody the man wielding a maul swept out to catch him, but Cathal was already moving away, his sword clanging against hard steel plate. He raised his sword again, attacking as the other spun the maul again. The weaker points in the other’s armour were becoming clear to him: under the arm, and across the thigh. The neck plate was also weak, he realised. His blade met the other’s once again, and then he hefted his sword up, slashing down, cutting through bone and sinew as though it were butter, the entire arm falling from the man’s body. He lifted his sword once more, cleaving through the man’s neck, the head coming away cleanly, rolling across the camp as the bandit fell to his knees, and then onto his back on the hard, packed earth.

Cathal wiped his sword on his sleeve, sickened by the blood that coated it. He glanced over at Harding, and saw the dawning realisation on her face. He’d seen that realisation on other people’s faces when they’d seen him kill before. The realisation that he was good at it.

It sickened him, that he could still be as good at killing ten years on from hanging up his sword for good at the end of the Fifth Blight and the Fereldan Civil War. He’d hung up the sword then, swearing an oath that he would no longer lift the blade unless it was for the defence of himself and his family. It disturbed him how good he had been; how he had walked off Ostagar bloodied battlefield with little more than a scratch to show for it, and pledged himself to Elethea Cousland’s civil war.

“You’re the Hero of Denerim,” Harding said. “I thought you looked familiar. You were at Redcliffe with the Queen and the Warden, too. I grew up hearing about you.”

Cathal closed his eyes. “I’m no hero, lass. I just did what had tae be done on the day.”

“But—”

Cathal held up his hand, stopping Lace Harding’s words before she could go on.

“No hero.”

“You remember the dwarf lass in the Redcliffe tavern? The same night the dead came from the lake?” Harding asked. “That child is standing before you now. Alive, thanks to you.”

Cathal blushed at Harding’s words. He turned away from her, and back to the gathered crowd of bandits. “You work for the Herald of Andraste now. Head tae Haven wi’ me. We’ll be ridin’ hard for Haven at daybreak. Gather your families, and bring ‘em wi’ ye. There will be food, board, and beds for those who want work, and the rest of ye? Ye’ll work for my sister, and answer tae me.”

“We pledge ourselves to your cause, and we will serve you willingly,” Ivor said. “You heard the man! Gather yer women and whatever weapons and provisions you want. Get the mabari and bring everything to Haven. We ride at daybreak.”

The Blades bowed, and thumped their hands over their chests. Then they began the work.

-•-•-

 

The sunset had turned the sky pink and purple as Cathal approached the gates of Haven. His horse’s ears pricked back at the familiar smells coming from the town beyond the gates. The unceasing ringing of hammers on steel, the smells of smoky cookfires and manure heavy in the air. The stables were ahead, and his horse nickered softly as she recognised where they were. Behind him, the banners of the Blades of Hessarian flapped in the wind. He heard the fabric flapping in the breeze, the familiar sounds of _home_.

The gate opened and his sister walked out, her head held high, Cullen beside her. He marked the way they stood together, as though the world had decreed that this mage and this templar should shine for one another, and one another alone. The glow of the sunset behind them caught the gold in Niamh’s hair, a halo around her head. She wore the simple garb of the healer, her leather apron forever spattered with blood.

“Who are these people, Cathal?” Niamh asked.

“The Blades of Hessarian. They’re here tae join our cause,” Cathal answered, dismounting and coming to clap hands with Cullen. “I heard they were in the area beyond the beach where we met the Bull’s Chargers. Took it upon ourselves tae go back and find out more. Turns out, they’re a militia unto themselves, an’ very interested in joining when I told them they’d be fighting in the name o’the Herald herself.”

He motioned for them to dismount, and as one, they did so.

“The Blades of Hessarian are ready to serve, milady,” Ivor said. “I am called Ivor. And it is my honour to help you with this war. We’ll be yer eyes and ears in places where ye can’t get to easily.”

Ivor got to his knees, but Niamh stopped him, her hand outstretched. “You don’t need to bow,” she said.

Cathal smiled at Cullen, and glanced back at his sister.

“This was all it took tae gain their loyalty. A chance to meet the Herald of Andraste.” Cathal said in a low tone.

“So does this mean that we’ll be housing them?” Cullen frowned. “Or will they stay on the Storm Coast?”

“Wherever they’ll be of most use. I figure we can use them for quiet work of the sort Sister Nightingale specialises in,” Cathal said, watching as the Blades of Hessarian Bent the knee, their right hand across their bodies in salute.

His sister inspired loyalty just by being herself, he noticed. He’d had no such inspiring qualities, nothing that would cause songs to be written about him— but he could see Niamh’s quiet dignity shining through, the leadership she showed in how she dealt with people. He could only hope she would live long enough to see it. There were things brewing, motions set in place by long-forgotten machinations. The disappearance of his cousin Aoife, Warden-Commander of Ferelden chief among them. Wardens going missing in droves made him uneasy— he needed to work out where, and when they had begun to disappear.

But that was a task for another day.


	13. The Wrath of Heaven - Chapter Thirteen - Niamh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you goes to [Barbex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/barbex) for her fantastic betaing. And to those of you who are reading, I'd love to hear your thoughts on these chapters. <3 The elvehnen is roughly translated as spirit healer. Also, the rant in this chapter is loosely inspired by Bernard Shaw's amazing play, _Saint Joan_.

_Dearest cousin,_

_You’re aware of my recent promotion to Herald of Andraste—the entirety of Thedas has probably heard by now—and that I seek aid to ensure the sealing of what we’re describing as The Breach. I know that in the years since the ending of both the Blight, and your war to claim the throne for your daughter, has left Ferelden in an untenable position—despite what my grandmother has poured into the reconstruction efforts. I only ask to meet with you, to talk face-to-face about the greatest threat to Ferelden since the ending of the Fifth Blight—and the world at large._

_I will, with your leave, ride for Denerim in two week’s time, which should hopefully give Lady Montilyet time to organise things to her satisfaction. Cathal has offered his lodgings as Arl of Denerim, but I’m not sure whether it would be better to stay in the palace, or in his lodgings. I know he has no patience for being Arl— but he is with us in Ferelden now, and Commander Cullen Rutherford has given him his own men to train. But I will talk of such things when I see you next._

_Yours most devotedly,_   
_Niamh Florenzia Trevelyan_   
_Herald of Andraste._

Niamh dropped red sealing wax onto the tightly-furled scroll, and pressed her signet ring into the wax. House Trevelyan’s coat of arms imprint on the red wax signified that she sent it, not in her capacity as Herald of Andraste, but under her own auspices. Wrapping her grey cloak around her, and tying a green shimmering silk scarf around her nose and mouth, she left the Chantry office she’d commandeered to take the letter to the rookery.

She would never get used to the crowds cheering her every time she walked the streets of Haven. She did not want to be the symbol of hope for so many—she’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. It settled like a lodestone in her gut—the weight of her responsibilities. So many people depended on her—on her ability to close Fade Rifts—and she hated the way they looked to her like some shining beacon of hope. She was just one woman; she could only do so much.

“Milady,” the apprentice birdkeeper greeted her, her accent a strange mixture of Orlesian and Fereldan.

“How are your birds today?” Niamh asked. The rookery reeked of dung and dust. Birds flapped their wings in flight and settled on perches, coming and going. “You were worried about one of them last time we talked.”

The apprentice blushed. “You remembered? I didn’t expect you to remember the birds I mentioned last time. She’s sitting on an egg—turns out, she was just broody.”

“Let me know when she hatches her squab,” Niamh said, as she selected one of the larger birds and tied the letter to his leg. She and the apprentice walked out of the rookery, and Niamh let the bird loose, watching it take flight towards Denerim.

She had sent the letter. Now all she could do was wait, and hope that Queen Elethea would agree to a meeting. It felt wrong to not consult with the Crown, especially with the rebel mages holed up in Redcliffe. Delicate dances of diplomacy were best left to Josephine, but some things, like a consultation with the sovereign of Ferelden regarding the refugee status of the mages seemed best done face-to-face.

Her feet took her towards the healers huts, and she sighed inwardly. She couldn’t seem to stay away from her healing duties, even when she had bigger concerns on her mind than knitting bones back together. She had to make a decision about the Breach, sooner or later. She pulled her glove off, and stared at her hand, turning it over to where the glowing green mark ached and throbbed. It was worse when she didn’t wear gloves over it, as though the very essence of the Fade travelled up her arm and down her side. She would never get used to the dull ache, the slow and persistent pain that ground her down. Nothing worked to remove the pain—there was no tonic or salve she knew of that could help it.

But that was for another day—another time. The responsibility of being the Herald of Andraste settled on her shoulders again, the sheer enormity of the task ahead of her daunting. One task at a time—that’s how she should tackle the problem, but there were so many, it reminded her of trying to plug a leak on a sinking ship. Yet there was a small part of her that wished everything could be made right with a wave of a hand and a smile.

  
-•-•-

A few days later, a messenger turned up while Niamh stitched a nasty wound closed. An accident with a block and tackle had left the unfortunate supply clerk with half the skin on his foot peeled back. She had just put the finishing touches on the last of the stitches, then held both hands an inch above the foot, closing her eyes as she called forth her healing magic to help it on its way. Her hands lit up with the soft glow associated with spirit healing; the energy she used a balm of kindness. It cost her nothing to be kind. Ordinarily, she did not use her magic in such a way, but the seriousness of the wound meant that without magic, it would take a very long time for it to heal.

“Milady Herald,” the messenger said, her eyes wide at the sight of the glowing hands. “I… have a message for you.”

Niamh concentrated on the wound, on finding the injuries deep within the supply clerk’s body. The clerk twitched as Niamh worked. There were old wounds that had never fully healed—a broken bone that had not knitted together—but she could not pervert the Maker’s work. She could not mend what the Maker had deemed fitting for this clerk, no matter that she could remove their pain and heal their injuries fully. Because the Chantry said that _magic existed to serve man, and never rule over him. Foul and corrupt are they who have taken his gift and turned it against his children._

But, perhaps she could ignore the Chantry’s teachings, just this once.

She closed her eyes and delved deep into her magic, pushing past the screaming in her head that told her she was on the verge of being named Maleficar. She could do this; use her magic to remove the pain and knit the old injuries back together. She did not work under the auspices of the Chantry—not any longer. The Inquisition had been denounced, and there was no Chantry to cry foul about her healing. She ignored the burning in her hands as she called forth the spirit that aided her whenever she went this deep into her magic.

_Darkness. It was so dark here, and Kirkwall’s streets weren’t safe. His sword in his hand, he moved cautiously around the corner, to see a phalanx of angry qunari in perfect formation charge up the street. Like an angry mob bearing torches and pitchforks, they descended on the city. He held his sword a little firmer now, his feet in a fighter’s stance. The tallest of the qunari advanced on him, his lips sewn shut in a horrific display of barbarity. It shocked him enough that he didn’t register the falling block from a balcony above. But that wasn’t what caused the injury; the qunari with the sewn lips raised his hands, and sparks of lightning flew from his fingers, and then everything went dark. A few weeks later, he woke up in a chantry infirmary, bandages around his head, and shaking hands. His foot mangled beyond repair, he had nearly lost it._

She traced the injury backwards, to the original impact. The nastiness of the original wound had been ineptly dealt with by the healer who had deemed his foot a nasty mess. Her hands hovered over the wound, eyes closed still—and then she opened them, done with the healing process. The injured supply clerk still sat at the bench where he had been sitting before she delved deep into her magic.

“Milady?” the messenger’s eyes were wide as saucers. “Your…. eyes?”

Niamh looked at the girl, who shrank back further from her. She glanced over to Adan, and saw the shock on his face. Footsteps sounded, and the door pushed open as Solas entered. A flash of recognition flickered in his eyes, as he gripped Niamh’s wrist with inhuman strength, dragging her out.

“What?” Niamh asked, her eyes now lingering on the elf’s face.

“Come with me,” Solas said. There was no arguing with him when he looked like that—as if he suddenly saw the last of his friends emerge from the Fade. “We need to talk.”

“Solas—”

“There is no time. If we do not act now, the entire fate of this Inquisition is doomed.” Solas ushered her inside his hut.

“What? I—I don’t understand?” Niamh’s confusion must’ve shown on her face.

“You are a _Ladarelan'elgar_ ,” Solas said. She frowned. “A spirit healer. A rare and prized gift among your people and mine. I thought I felt your power slumbering while you worked alongside the healers.”

“…You felt it?” Niamh’s eyebrows rose. “Felt _what_ , exactly?”

“The power you have. With it, you could shake the world to its core.” Solas said. “We need to see the Seeker. And the Ambassador. Come.” Solas made shooing motions with his hands, and Niamh nodded. She followed him out of the hut, past the people in the village.

“But, Solas… I don’t understand why they stared at me like that. Like there was something… wrong?” Niamh frowned in consternation. She had felt the shift of her power, of her giving over a tiny piece of her mind to the spirit that watched her through her Fade travels, guiding her healing step by gentle step. It had always been a transactional relationship: she would give over a short glimpse of the spirit’s longing to be made flesh, and in exchange, the spirit aided and assisted her through her hardest and most devastating work. Without this spirit, she would not have been able to save so many.

She rushed to keep up with Solas as he swiftly moved through Haven, past everyone and up the wide, shallow steps towards the chantry.

“Your eyes were glowing. That doesn’t usually happen, does it?” Solas asked.

“They _glowed_?” Niamh asked. “Templars would’ve said something about it before now. Only had them holding me at sword point the entire time I’ve been a Spirit Healer.”

“That, judging from your voice, is a new development. Interesting.” Solas said. “I theorise it must be the Mark that changes it. We should explore this some more, at a later time.”

The doors of the chantry swung open on silent hinges, and Solas herded her inside. The War Room beckoned, and again the doors opened. She took a moment to gather herself, her scattered, confused thoughts. She squared her shoulders, her head held high as she walked through the door. She rested her palms on the massive map table, seeing the various operation pieces on the board. The crossed keys were Josephine’s missions; the ones that involved delicate diplomatic dances, the shields were where their troops were scattered throughout the Fereldan hinterlands and north towards the Storm Coast, across the Frostback Mountains to Orlais, and finally, the ravens were Leliana’s missions. She appreciated the enormity of the task they had ahead of them; the tiny playing pieces from a game begun long ago on a cosmic scale. It felt like she were continuing the ancient war Andraste had started.

How many missions had they planned here? Niamh had lost count of them. Quiet dread pooled in her belly, and she bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood. Her mind raced through the implications of the spirit healing revelation, and she looked at her left hand, at the glove that did not conceal the glow from the Fade.

“What is it that I hear about your eyes?” the Nightingale demanded. Cullen came close on her heels, and Cassandra seconds later.

“Please tell me it wasn’t you….” Cullen’s eyes lingered on Niamh’s face, studying her.

“If you’re talking about my eyes, I don’t know what happened, or why it happened,” Niamh said, her chest tight and her heart racing. “Solas seems to think he knows the reason, but he hasn’t exactly been forthcoming with the information.”

She glanced around at the worried faces, her gaze landing on Cullen. His eyes held a look she could only describe as dread mixed with searching. He stared at her, and she met his gaze, unflinchingly. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, and she felt a tiny piece of her heart shatter again. He had slain enough mages—as Niamh knew—to truly understand the danger of her magic. She wasn’t arrogant enough to think that it would never go wrong—there _had_ to be checks and balances in place to ensure that her power had limits.

“Your eyes changed colour.” Solas stated. “A sign that your spirit lingers too long in the Fade. Hovering in the in-between, waiting to either re-enter your body, or let go. I have seen too many mages burn their magic out this way—a form of what your kind call Tranquility, but voluntary.”

Niamh’s forehead creased. “My eyes? I felt only the cool touch of the spirit’s hand on my shoulder as I worked. I’ve never felt the tug that other spirit healers describe, that sort of unpleasant hook around my navel.”

Spirit healing had always been subject to the most scrutiny in the Circles— the most watched of all mages and magicks. After her Harrowing, she had been called away multiple times to heal the worst illnesses and injuries— a last resort of desperate people; midnight wakings, with desperation in their voices, at sword-point, templars hovering over her as she worked. The shake of a shoulder, the hushed whispers, swift ushering her out of her bed at all hours of the night, put on a horse and sent all over Ostwick on errands that left her with dark circles and swollen eyes, red welts on her arms, her nose dripping like a water pump. There would be the weeks where she hadn’t slept at all, called to one crisis and another— they always seemed to bleed together.

Her sacred calling had always been there; a lingering spirit that clung to her like a cloak in a gale, the same spirit each time. A spirit of compassion; rare and beautiful, forever beckoning her whenever she worked, urging her on to greater, kinder acts. She had never given into the spirit’s whispering to her— the urging of it being a kindness to leave someone to die rather than patching them up. The old and infirm begged her to let them go— telling her their lives were over. Once, only once, she had given in— leaving an elderly, lonely person to the hands of the Maker.

She wanted to yell and scream at them, to try and get it through their thick heads that she had never harmed anyone. The oath she had taken when she became a healer, the sacred duty that being a healer and a spirit healer—to first do no harm—that was the credo she lived by. If her friends could not see it, then they did not deserve to be called her friends. If the Inquisition wished to call her an imposter, then she would let them—damn them all. If they could not see that she was simply a healer, and not the Herald of Andraste—well, that was their fault, not hers.

“…. We will address this at some other time. Your letter to the Queen of Ferelden has been received, and we have an answer—she has agreed to meet with us and the Landsmeet will be convened,” Josephine said, her brows furrowed. “I suggest you use your packing time to think about what we will say regarding your… _gift_.”

“That’s one good thing to come out of today,” Niamh said, sighing. She hated seeing the suspicion that came with her Spirit Healing talents. “My cousin already knows I’m a spirit healer; there will be no surprises for her. The everyday people might be scared, though. Elethea will have the unruly nobles of the Landsmeet in hand.”

Niamh saw the fear in the eyes of her friends and companions. Even when it should be obvious that she had never used her magic for evil intentions, the stain of the maleficarum and the fear meant that people—even learned, educated people—still mistrusted mages. She saw the condemnation in their faces, the fear that she might turn into an abomination, the fear that—no, it was too much for her. She lived in constant danger; the fear of being made tranquil should the day ever come.

“Why are you all looking at me as though I’m going to begin bathing in blood and painting the foulest sigils of ancient Tevinter on the walls of this village?” Niamh said, her voice small and breaking. I have been Harrowed these past sixteen years—and I was First Enchanter. You should all know by now that I would never misuse my power. That I find blood magic abhorrent and wrong. _Magic exists to serve man_ —or so the Chant of Light states. I use my magic in service of people.”

She didn’t know when the hot, angry tears slid down her face. Tired of being treated like she was one bad day away from turning into an abomination. “I came to the Conclave to argue in favour of ending this Maker-damned war. I never asked for this. Never. I would give this position up in a heartbeat if it was the way forwards. But, I am here, and I am not going away.”

Niamh stood to leave, but Cullen reached for her arm. She whirled to face him. “What?”

“You have my trust,” he said softly.

It was a strange thought that though Cullen was a templar, she felt safest when beside him; secure in the knowledge that he knew the signs of possession, and what to do with it. She moved to stand beside him, linking her right hand with his, their fingers entwining. The templar and the mage, standing together against the world that feared her power more than they feared any other mage’s.

The door to the war room opened, and Cathal walked in, and leaned casually against the doorjamb. “I reiterate the offer I made earlier. You can stay at my estate in Denerim. If you like. It’s large, spacious, and entirely oot of the palace district. It’s smack dab in the heart of Denerim.”

Niamh swallowed her anger, taking a deep breath in, and closed her eyes on the exhale. “Thank you. But I think we’ve bigger concerns at play than just accommodation, Cathal.”

“Aye. Such as the nobles finding out yer a spirit healer. They won’t like that. Even if ye are the Herald of Andraste.” Cathal agreed. He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning his head backwards on the door. “I’ll send the Blades of Hessarian with ye. Your eyes are unusual, if not unnerving if one isn’t used to them. But this is new, this glowing eyes business.”

She looked at her brother, wanting to hug him. He’d been there the first time the spirit healing had manifested— glowing hands and all. Even at sixteen, he had not been alarmed by the change that came over her, of her magic manifesting. But Cathal’s reaction was the anomaly; most others were frightened by the change— the way her body was not her own for the moments in which she healed people’s worst, oldest injuries.

She leaned against Cullen, sagging from the tiredness that always overtook her in the wake of her healing magics. She swayed on her feet, and Cullen put his arm around her waist, making sure she didn’t fall. For a moment, she could forget where they were— and she took strength from Cullen’s steadfastness, the solid shield guarding her from all the evils of the world.

“I would never cut you down,” Cullen said, for her ears alone.

“How can you be so certain?” Niamh said. “We have templars here who would gladly make me Tranquil simply for this…”

“It won’t,” Cullen said. “They’d have to come through me first, and I’m not about to let that happen.”

Solas cleared his throat. “The better idea would be teaching you how best to use your magic. You do not know anything about it, beyond the basics. And you are sorely lacking in tuition. I will teach you what I know of spirit healing,” he said, addressing Niamh and none other. “What I have taught you is a single drop in the ocean compared to what I will teach you.”

“Thank you,” Niamh said. “When I return from Denerim, we will talk more of it.”

She looked around the room, at the circle of people who were her advisers, Cassandra scowling and uncertain, Varric in rapt concentration, as she saw his mind ticking over for the next plot for one of his books. Leliana with her arms crossed, quiet in her listening, Patentia, heavy with child. Her grandmother, serene and unruffled, Vivienne beside her, poised and regal in her stillness. They were all there; each of them looking to her for instruction, for direction. Niamh bit her lip, before gesturing to Cassandra.

“I’m sure you have an opinion, Cassandra,” Niamh said. “And you, Leliana? Do you have anything to say?”

“I….” Cassandra sounded hesitant. “I am reluctant to say anything because the last time I said anything, Cullen bit my head off.”

“That was one time, and I apologised for it after,” Cullen said. “And that has no bearing on our current situation. We need to figure out where to go from here.”

“The Chantry will be worried that the Herald of Andraste is a Spirit Healer,” Cassandra said. “I worry for the fate of our Inquisition.”

“I can have messengers to Orlais in minutes,” Leliana said. “And elsewhere. I know the Queen of Ferelden, I fought alongside her and her twin during the Blight.”

“With all due respect, Sister Nightingale, I know the Queen better than you do,” Niamh said. “She knows I’m a spirit healer; she has seen my work.”

“How?” Leliana asked, clearly flummoxed.

Niamh smiled. “She’s my cousin. I wasn’t able to assist her during the Civil War and the Blight, but I know her. Better than you ever will.”

“Why wasn’t I informed of this fact?” Leliana spluttered.

“I didn’t see it as relevant to the running of the Inquisition. It’s not like she can act against or in favour of it. We’ve been building watchtowers and shoring up defences left rotting in the years since the Blight.” Niamh shot back. “You aren’t omniscient, no matter how much you desire it.”

“You still should’ve told me,” Leliana said. “It could be useful blackmail for—”

Niamh held up her hand. “I’m going to stop you right there, Spymaster. Do what you need to do, but you will not use my relationship with the Queen of Ferelden for your purposes. Josephine knew, and we do not have to exploit my familial relationships to get what it is we want. I’ve had my fill of my family name being used to get things done. I want this to be a decision I made.”

“You’re naive,” Leliana snapped.

“At least I didn’t have a dream about a rose bush blooming and decide that the Maker gave me a signal to help fight a Blight,” Niamh retorted. “For all your talk of what Divine Justinia would’ve wanted, you’re nothing but a fraud. And I know about that, because Ellie told me about it.”

“You’re a coddled mage. What do you know of things? I only tolerate you because I need you,” Leliana said.

“Correction, Sister Nightingale. You need my _hand_.” Niamh said. “You couldn’t care less if I went off and died, so long as the hole in the sky was fixed. Another unfortunate casualty of the mage-templar war, a dead mage. Mere _tolerance_ got us into this mess with mages and templars. The Chantry is culpable here. Not that you wish to admit it. And mages aren't naive and sheltered— you locked us in towers and then throw our sheltered nature at us as though it is a personal shortcoming. It is only now, when I have a hand that can seal the sky that you have any use for me.”

Cullen moved, his hand resting on Niamh’s shoulder. He pulled her away from the Nightingale, as Cassandra scowled and grabbed Leliana’s cowl, hauling her backwards. Niamh breathed hard, her hands clenched tightly into fists, heart hammering in her chest. Another panic attack would not be good; not now. She bit down on her bottom lip, not letting the anger escape, knowing it would only make things worse if she continued. She would not be an idle bystander in her own life— she had done that too often. The mark on her hand crackled to life, sparking little green bursts of energy that seared up her arm and down her chest, bands of iron wrapping around her chest like a vise. Now she swallowed the scream that threatened; not wanting to add to the already-charged atmosphere, and it seemed as though her emotions were a conduit to the anchor’s pathway through her body. Fire coursed through her veins, and then ice.

“That’s enough from both of you. We need to devise a cleverly-worded message….” Josephine said, her quill in one hand, her clipboard in the other. “Something that addresses the Herald’s…” she struggled for the word.

“Curse?” Niamh supplied, her voice bitter. “Life-altering magic that means I’ve had Templars breathing down my neck since the day I was Harrowed? Or are we going to handwave my Spirit Healing away with a message that states it was an anomaly?”

“I was thinking something along the lines of it being an admission that you’re a Spirit Healer,” Josephine said. “Let them make their decision based on whether they think you should be the Herald of Andraste…”

“I’m not sure I understand your meaning, Josie,” Niamh said, confused. “Who are the _them_ and _they_ you refer to?”

“ _They_ are the Chantry, and the world,” Josephine said. “They believe you to be the Herald of Andraste, and your actions as a spirit healer will reach Denerim before you and your entourage do. I will have to think of something to tell them.”

“In case you have forgotten, the Chantry have denounced us all as heretics.” Niamh pointed out. “We don’t operate under their auspices. We haven’t operated under their auspices since the incident in Val Royeaux. That is what has freed us from Chantry censure— we are free to do what the Divine asked us to do when she gave the writ that the Inquisition be reformed.”

“You forget yourself, Herald,” Leliana said. “The Divine did not say that we could operate outside of the Chantry. We are bound by the Chantry.”

“We’re not,” Niamh said, trying to hold her tongue. It was like bucketing water from a sinking ship.

“With all due respect, Herald of Andraste, you didn’t know the Divine. I did. I knew Justinia long before she became Divine. She would want us operating under their auspices,” Leliana said.

“Why is it that whenever someone says ‘with all due respect’ they really mean, ‘shut up and do what I say’?” Niamh snapped. “And regardless of what Divine Justinia wanted, she’s gone. Dead. What she wanted no longer matters— we have a hole in the sky, I’m the only one who can fix it, and I choose to not aggravate the Fereldan Crown. We are in Ferelden, after all, and Orlais is watching us. We need the Landsmeet on our side, and are a prickly bunch, which you should remember, especially if you were there when Ellie convinced the Landsmeet to name her queen regent for her unborn daughter.”

“But—”

“ _Enough_!” Cassandra slammed her fist down on the table. The bang was loud enough to make everyone jump.

“This squabbling gets us nowhere,” Josephine said, startled. “We have something else that’s equally important to discuss, and we won’t get there if we continue to bicker like children.”

“You’re right,” Niamh said, looking at Josephine. “We need to discuss who is going with me to Denerim. This meeting is our one and only chance to secure a place in the good graces of the country we’re squatting in.”

“Squatter’s rights apply,” Varric chuckled, breaking the tension. “We’re in Haven, which is owned by the DuRellion family. Haven is in Ferelden, and this shit makes no sense.”

She forced a laugh. “ _Nothing_ makes sense, Varric. If this was one of your novels, you’d describe us all as dangerously incompetent and not knowing our arse from our elbows, as Granny would say.”

“Aye. We need to work oot where yer staying in Denerim,” Cathal said, changing the subject back to the matter at hand. “Now that we’ve had our differences aired, let’s work on this jaunt.”

Niamh smiled at her brother, grateful that he’d managed to change the subject to something far less charged. Her differences with Leliana notwithstanding, they had a lot to cover now. A deep breath, and she gathered her thoughts, her composure. “Cullen— I’d like you to accompany me, as both head of our forces, and as my bodyguard. Josephine, Vivienne, I’d also like you to come with me, as you’re both far better, and more adept players of the Game than I am. Cassandra, you have little patience with nobility, but I need your sword arm, too.”

“And I should go,” Leliana said.

“No.” Cathal shook his head. “If you and Cassandra go, and Cullen goes, who will be there to make sure stuff disnae go down here? Stay, Leliana. We can do some work for the Inquisition this way, and it means Niamh and ye don’t have tae be in the same space as each other.”

Leliana turned, and stormed out.

“Oh sure, leave— why don’t ye? It’s not like it isn’t yer usual method of handling problems,” Cathal quipped at Leliana’s departure.

-•-•-

The Hinterlands of Ferelden soon gave way to wild swathes of untouched forest and greenery. Around them, spring shook her glorious golden raiment on the earth, the warmth of the sunshine a balm on weary souls. Niamh felt the scratchiness in her throat from her hours in the saddle, and wished for not the first time that the Inquisition had found her a better mount than a horse. It wasn’t the horse’s fault—no, the Maker had played a grand trick on her to make it a necessity to ride everywhere. At least the Circle had been safe in that regard.

Niamh slid from her horse and took her waterskin from her belt. She popped the cork, and swigged. They had been riding for the past five hours, and she was well and truly over it. Just once, she wanted a carriage, with windows and a roof, so she wasn’t constantly exposed to the one allergen she had: horses. Her throat itched and her nose streamed, the welts on her arms would come next, and then would come the nasty blinding migraine that threatened to derail everything. Maker, she hated that they only had horses.

The River Dane stretched out before them, and Haven was a good several hours hard riding behind them. Still weeks away from reaching Denerim, Niamh only hoped she wouldn’t develop the nastier side of her allergies. She walked away from the horses down the riverbank, and removed her scarf. A thick layer of dust and horsehair coated it. Against the setting sun, the river stretched out in a golden glitter, the smooth waters a gentle ripple turned orange and red. It had been on this river that Loghain Mac Tir had defeated the Orlesian empire—or so the tales went.

“A copper for your thoughts?” Cullen’s voice was low in her ear. For a moment, she could relax into his embrace, his arms wrapped low around her waist.

“I need a better mount. This mild niggling allergy of mine will turn pretty nasty soon,” she said, sighing. “It’s a hassle.”

“We’ll see what we can do,” Cullen said. For a moment longer, they stood together, before the sound of someone coming down the riverbank made them break apart.

“Thank you, Commander,” Niamh said, resuming her role as Herald of Andraste, the moment between them forgotten.

They turned to find a young scout looking at them, and then his eyes went wide in horror at the sight of her. Fear flashed in his eyes, and Niamh assumed he’d heard about the incident in the healing huts. She sighed, her shoulders sagging as the scout turned deliberately to Cullen.

“Commander, we have finished setting up the tents, and the Herald’s tent is ready for her,” the scout said, not meeting Niamh’s eyes as he turned back up the riverbank, hastening away from them.

“They’re afraid of me,” Niamh said. “It seems my spirit healing abilities are once more misunderstood.”

“I know you would never intentionally cause harm,” Cullen said. “But people see spirits, and hear of abominations, and conflate those two.”

“I feel safest when I’m with you, safe in the knowledge that you would do what’s needed to be done,” Niamh said, as Cullen wrapped his arm around her waist, drawing her close to him. She inhaled his scent; the sharp tang of male sweat and shaving soap, but there was none of the tainted scent of lyrium. Had Cullen stopped taking it, and if so, why? She didn’t know, and it wasn’t her business to ask, not in this new fragile relationship they were building.

“I don’t deserve that,” Cullen said, his voice quiet. “That trust in my abilities.”

“You do,” Niamh said. “If I were ever to become possessed, I would want it to be you who cuts me down.” She glanced down along the river, away from the camp they’d built. She wanted to tell Cullen things she’d never told another living soul— that it was always the same spirit that assisted her through all her spirit healing— the same presence. But would he truly understand the things Solas had been teaching her these past months? Could Cullen ever understand the peace she felt in her work, her Maker-given calling in her healing. She didn’t know. And their truce was so tenuous and new— there were things she’d said in anger, things she wished she could take back. But words, once spoken, could never be returned from whence they came.

“I hope that day never comes,” Cullen’s voice was serious and quiet, but his arms around her were tight and strong.

“But if it does, I trust you to pass my sentence and swing the blade. My father always says the person who passes the sentence must be the one to swing the blade,” Niamh said.

“What if it never happens?” Cullen asked, hands on her shoulders now. “I…. Trust your abilities as a spirit healer.”

“That… Cullen,” Niamh turned in his arms, and stood on tiptoes to kiss him on the lips. “Means more than you will ever know.”

She wished spirit healing was better understood in general. It was an area of magic that had long been under intense Templar scrutiny; the threat of being made Tranquil hanging over their heads every time they went into the Fade. After sixteen years of healing, she wasn’t as arrogant as to think there was no inherent danger in what she did—that the Fade couldn’t give her a demon and not a spirit summoned forth. Caution, carefulness, consideration—those three things were omnipresent whenever she ventured into the Fade. She knew the dangers of a demonic summoning, had done her best in the Circle to discourage young apprentices in the first flush of their magical discoveries from venturing too far off the standard path. Not all of them had listened—and some had been made Tranquil instead of undergoing the Harrowing out of fear that they may turn into abominations.

They made their way back up the bank towards the campsite.

The scout handed her a sealed tube, this one with the royal Theirin insignia stamped into the wax seal. Niamh frowned, and broke the seal.

_Dearest cousin,_

_I have to warn you that the Landsmeet has been convened to discuss the issue of the rebel mages holed up in Redcliffe Castle. As they have driven Arl Teagan from his ancestral lands, Bann Ceorlic moves to have the mages expelled from Ferelden for their usurpation of refugee status. Unfortunately, this means that the Landsmeet is once again fraught with uncertainties._

_My love to you,_   
_Elethea Granuaille Cousland Theirin_   
_Queen of Ferelden._

“Well, that’s not good,” Niamh commented, her tone mild.

“What isn’t?” Cullen asked, as Niamh glanced back at the letter in her hand, and then back up to him.

“Ellie has called a Landsmeet to talk about Grand Enchanter Fiona’s prolonged stay in Redcliffe village. One of the old families—one Granny talks about as being traitors to Ferelden—is agitating the Landsmeet into believing the mages are somehow encroaching on the refugee status they currently enjoy. Bann Ceorlic, among others, are suggesting that there’s something more sinister at work than just mages being mages,” Niamh said, handing the letter to Cullen.

“I met Elethea once, but it was a long time ago,” Cullen said.

“I’m guessing during the Blight?” Niamh said, her head tilted slightly to the side as she surveyed the black shadow of a hawk flying against the dying daylight.

“Yes. We met under… trying circumstances,” Cullen said, as Niamh looked at him, and at the bobbing of his Adam’s apple. “It wasn’t a good time in my life.”

She wouldn’t press Cullen for further details, not right now. They had a long road still to travel, and she wanted to take things slowly, to explore what was between them, and she couldn’t do that if she pressed Cullen for what he had done in Ferelden. There was too much jagged uncertainty— too much left unsaid and unknown. She went to him, pressing her body against his, feeling as his arms came around her, the surety of his embrace a life raft in a sea of uncertainty.


End file.
